What's in a name
by kamikaze-djali
Summary: It's January 15th 1482, four days after the death of Claude Frollo. Most of Paris is rejoicing and the citizens are returning to the rhythm of daily life. Quasimodo is struggling with the sudden change and what it means for his future.
1. The Name Frollo

The Name Frollo

Esmeralda tapped her tambourine. As the flute played, she danced merrily, the fabric of her dress folding and floating with each motion. Djali bounded about at her feet. As the last notes of the song died away, she came to a rest. She breathed out a heavy sigh, catching her breath. Her breath formed a cloud near her lips. The winter air had become colder since the festival of fools.

Her musician lifted the hat, which carried a few coins. They divided the coins equally and parted ways. Djali followed at Esmeraldas heels as she walked toward the marketplace.

Paris was alive again, the streets filled with people of every sort. Street corners were dotted with dancers, poets and musicians. Vendors, both French and Romani, sold their wares in the same square. Esmeralda smiled as she passed through the crowd, toward the bakery. She bought a loaf of bread and filled her wineskin. She rested with her back against a well, watching the people.

Esmeralda nibbled at the bread. She continued to tear away small pieces for Djali, who ate them greedily. Having finished the bread, she remained in place, continuing to watching the crowd. Without the merry beat of music as a distraction, the burns on her ankles began to ache and throb. Had it truly been a week since Frollo died? She lifted her dress away from her feet, baring her bandages to the light. Time was the only cure for these wounds.

Hoof beats caused Esmeralda to lift her gaze upwards. Phoebus sat atop his horse, smiling at her. The noon sun glowed from behind him.

"My love, why do you dance when you're not healed."

"I must pay for my bread and wine, Phoebus." Esmeralda stood. Phoebus dismounted. They embraced.

Phoebus removed his right glove. He brushed his fingers through Esmeraldas hair. Lightly placing his fingers under her jaw, he guided her lips to his. They kissed, eliciting a few gasps and chuckles from passers-by. Their lips parted. Both remained in place.

"Here we are, in the sunlight together."

"It is like a dream." Phoebus allowed a strand of Esmeraldas hair to flow between his fingers. "I can't imagine holding anyone else in my arms." Esmeralda stroked his armour. The polish on the metal drew her eyes to her own reflection.

"Frollo hired you to destroy my people." She walked her fingers along the plate metal, resting them on his gloved hand. "Had he hired another, who knows what would have happened."

"Quasimodo would have saved you, just the same as he did." Phoebus watched as Esmeraldas hand slid from his. He waved his hand toward the marketplace, toward the crowd. "If not for him, this would not be possible. It appears my only role is to maintain the balance."

"He's not even out here to enjoy it." Esmeralda crossed her arms. "You've been patrolling Paris. Have you seen him today?"

"I've not seen him in two days."

"He seemed so distant yesterday. I'm worried about him." Esmeralda stepped back. "We really shouldn't be leaving him alone."

"I assume you've been to Notre Dame."

"Earlier today, after the first tolling." Esmeralda looked toward the cathedral. "The bells have not been the same since. The priests are ringing them and they sound lifeless."

"Quasimodo doesn't disappear easily. We will find him." Phoebus touched Esmeraldas cheek lightly. "One of the Deacons will know his whereabouts and if there is cause to worry. He can't be far."

By early afternoon, Phoebus and Esmeralda were seated in a farm cart, headed out of Paris. The cart bounced over the dirt road, turning up trails of dust. After nearly an hour, the cart stopped at a baren field. The driver stepped out to attend his horses.

"You will need to walk the rest of the way. Follow the road for another two miles. You will see the plot from the road." Phoebus passed the man a few coins. The driver eagerly placed them in his pocket. "May you find whatever it is you seek."

* * *

The sun had risen as the wagon left Paris, melting the morning frost from the trees. The farmer didn't speak to his passenger, who rested in the back of the wagon with empty wine barrels. He'd been approached by a Deacon, requesting that he carry a passenger to Versailles. Without question, he had agreed. Notre Dame de Paris purchased much of his wine and was a good customer. He'd regretted his decision upon seeing his passenger.

The wagon rolled to a stop near an open area. The cloaked man stepped out, unloading a crate and shovel. He passed a few coins to the driver, who then shifted to the middle of the seat. The driver looked his passenger in the eye, then shook his head and sighed. With a slap of the reins, the horse trotted away.

Looking into the small barren field, the man then glanced to the crate. Charred, shattered bones and a few scraps of blackened fabric filled the small box. Most had been burned away and could not be gathered. What remained was dried, black and barely recognizable as human. He lifted the shovel and crate. He stepped toward the damp, cold field.

The soil was poisoned, enough so to prevent so much as a weed from growing. Paths of hard-packed soil, with bits of dried human bone as cobbles, formed a web between scattered mounds of freshly turned earth. The ground was unconsecrated, a deposit for those doomed for hell. It was here that the remains would rest. Church law dictated such a location. What was not mentioned was the town chosen or the depth of burial. He would ensure that the box, and its contents, would not be disturbed.

In the farthest corner, in the hardest soil, he began digging. Small stones, hard clots of dirt and small pieces of human bone filled the soil. As the sun lifted itself into the sky, the man continued to dig. As the hole deepened, the man disappeared below the ground. The soil became clear of bones and changed to a light brown hue. He chipped away at the clay with the spade, then watched as water began to pool at his feet. Using the shovel for leverage, he pulled himself out of the hole. Gently, he lowered the crate into the earth.

As he filled the hole with soil, the water soaked upward. He slapped the black, foul earth and clay with the shovel, packing it down. Bone fragments split and cracked as the last few scoops of soil were packed down. Exhausted, the man knelt before the grave.

From the folds of his patched cloak, he pulled a small wooden cross. Having placed it firmly into the earth, he looked once more at the name he'd carved into it. If only this one prayer and gesture would be enough to grant him forgiveness and entry into heaven. He knelt on the hard ground, before the dampened area of freshly-packed earth. Hands covered with dry soil were held still, in prayer, under the noon sun. The spade lay near his side. He allowed his hand to fall to the cross, and back to his knees.

The sun soon disappeared behind a cloud. Cold rain fell on the man and the wooden cross. He remained in place as the sun reappeared, casting its light over him once more. He had done his duty and laid his Master to rest. No longer in prayer, he stared at the carved letters. The name Frollo was his, as well. The Archdeacon and preists had told him so. What the name would mean for him had yet to be determined. What would he friends say if they knew what he'd done for such a hated man?

He lowered his head, eyes fixed on his hands, breathing out deeply. His hands were covered with the decayed remains of others. The ridges and cracks in his skin were stained black. He looked to the overcast sky, the sun now dipping toward evening. Paris was far beyond the horizon, Notre Dame out of sight.

Quasimodo startled as he felt the touch of another. Suddenly, his eyelids opened wide, then narrowed to slits. Gritting his teeth, he rose to his feet, turning as his legs extended. His knees complained at the sudden change in position. His expression softened as he realized Esmeralda stood next to him. She set a hand on each of his shoulders.

"Quasi. It's good to see you. Phoebus and I were worried about you."

He opened his mouth to speak. Instead, he lowered his gaze and looked toward the wooden cross. His eyes closed once more. Esmeralda looked at the cross and the disturbed earth. She shuddered slightly. Quasimodo turned to her, his lower eyelids lifted. His gaze remained fixed into the distance for a few moments. His eyes looked to her, the left side of his mouth lifting into a half smile.

Esmeralda watched as Quasimodo remained still. Gently, she took his right hand in hers. She tugged his arm, pulling him away from the grave. Quasimodo turned once more, to see Phoebus lifting the shovel. He stared into Quasimodos eyes.

"I can't even begin to understand what you're going through. That is between you and God. All I know is that you can't stay here. We need to get you home."

Quasimodo watched as Phoebus rested the shovel over his shoulder. He allowed Esmeralda to lead him away from the ground, away from the grave. He turned once more, feeling the tug on his arm lessen as he stopped. He crossed himself, then looked toward Esmeralda and nodded. They began to walk toward Paris.


	2. The Walk Home

The Walk Home  


Quasimodo focused on his shoes as he walked toward Paris. Each step caused his knees to ache. Dull pangs shot through his spine each time his right heel struck the earth. Eyes lifting slightly, he looked to the road. Three shadows moved steadily over the worn path. Fixing his eyes on his own shadow, he continued to move forward. A light touch on his right arm caused him to stop.

"Quasi, you should rest."

"I'm fine." His gaze shifted from Esmeralda to the ribbon of wet soil leading to Paris. The towers of Notre Dame lay far beyond the horizon.

"It's clear you're hurting." Esmeralda planted her hands on her hips, staring him in the eyes. She nodded her head toward a nearby tree. Without a word, Phoebus walked toward the tree to rest. He leaned his back on the bark. A wine skin was soon at his lips.

Esmeralda watched as Quasimodo limped toward the shade. He sat on the earth, opposite his friends. Passing his fingers through the dead grass, he cleaned the soil from his hands. Phoebus thrust the wine into Quasimodo's grasp.

"You look like you could use a drink, my friend. It will warm you up." Quasimodo drank, shifting his weight. He could feel Phoebus' eyes watching his every movement. Esmeralda tapped his foot with her boot, turning his attention from Phoebus.

"Why would you visit such a dreadful place, anyhow?"

"It was my duty." Quasimodo offered the wine to Esmeralda. She left it in his hands.

"Versailles, of all places." Phoebus looked to Quasimodo. "We're glad we found you."

"It's far from Paris, farther than I expected. He may find rest out here." Quasimodo's shoulders slumped. He looked to the ground, then to his soiled hands. "I owed him that much."

"After everything Frollo did, Montfaucon would have sufficed. Or a manure heap. There was no need to travel so far for someone destined for hell." Esmeralda adjusted her skirt, exposing her burned and bandaged ankles. Phoebus set his hand on Esmeralda's shoulder as she spoke. She crossed her arms, turning her eyes toward the road. "If I see another 'Frollo' in my lifetime, it will be too soon."

"Now may not be the time to say that." Phoebus whispered into Esmeralda's ear. "You may have forgotten that Quasimodo is..."

"Why not?" Esmeralda cut Phoebus off. "Frollo was a mad man and a murderer. No good can come of that name."

"Please don't say that." Quasimodo looked at Esmeralda. His lower eyelids rose, narrowing his gaze. A thin rim of tears rested on each lower eyelid. "He did horrible things, I know that now. He was also my Master." Sharp hand gestures punctuated his statement, cutting the air in frustration as each word left his lips.

Phoebus rubbed Esmeralda's shoulders in attempt to calm her. She remained still, her arms crossed.

"You have done everything you can do. Claude Frollo's fate now rests in God's hands." Phoebus spoke clearly. Esmeralda huffed and turned away. Quasimodo lowered his gaze, toward his hands. Phoebus looked toward the lowering sun. Neither Esmeralda nor Quasimodo were fit to continue.

"There is little daylight left, we should prepare to spend the night." Phoebus looked toward a grove of trees. "It's ten miles to Paris and we will not make it home tonight. Over there should do nicely."

"We were dropped off less than a mile from here." Esmeralda stood, extending her arm toward the open road. "It's not much farther. There could be a wagon waiting, if we hurry."

"Esmeralda, my dear. Your feet are swelling." Phoebus nodded toward Quasimodo, who sat in silence, staring at the wine skin that rested in his hands. Esmeralda followed his eyes. She sighed. Phoebus spoke softly into her ear. "Even if your feet were healed, I doubt Quasimodo is able to continue much longer, you know that as well as I. Chances are he's never walked this far before."

Esmeralda turned to look at her friend, who remained still. "All that effort, and for what? For someone that was so cruel to him. I don't understand why this was necessary."

"Neither of us has to." Phoebus squeezed Esmeralda's hand.

Quasimodo lifted his eyes to see Esmeralda and Phoebus watching him. His lips parted slightly, as if he were ready to speak. The concerned expressions on his friends faces caused him to frown. Raising his hands, he massaged his temples. He breathed out slowly, his hands falling to his sides.

"I have done what I needed to do." Quasimodo passed the wine skin to Esmeralda. He looked into the sky for a moment, toward the rosy pink of sunset, then to the road. As he stood, his legs trembled. He forced his shoulders back and began to walk. Turning, he faced his friends. "I'm going home."

Esmeralda stared as Quasimodo limped away from her and Phoebus. She watched as Phoebus stood, offering his hand to her.

"You just said he won't make it much farther. Now, you're letting him continue?" Esmeralda held her open hand out, gesturing toward Quasimodo.

"I'm not about to order him to do anything. You may try, if you wish. When he gives up, we'll make camp."

"Why must he be so stubborn." Esmeralda sighed, watching as Quasimodo as he limped away. Phoebus stepped beside her, placing his hand on her shoulder.

"Just let him be." Phoebus began to walk.

* * *

Esmeralda, Quasimodo and Phoebus arrived at a field, just as the last rays of sun died in the brightening moonlight. The suns rays were dim, a pale golden glow casting long shadows onto the earth. A team of horses rested patiently in harness. Two men stood in the wagon, unloading rails and thin branches. Tools lay in a row on the wattle fence. The field lay empty, dead grass and mud in rough rows. Phoebus approached, Esmeralda at his side. Quasimodo remained a few steps behind.

"Good Sir. Are you returning to Paris this fine evening?" Phoebus called out to the men. Esmeralda leaned into Phoebus.

"Gervais and I are leaving, yes." The man stood up in the cart, peering over the young couple. "Once these rails are unloaded, there is room for the two of you."

Esmeralda stepped forward. "This very wagon carried a load of rails and four workers, as well as us, earlier today. Surely there is room for three."

The man motioned over Esmeralda's shoulder, toward the fence. The sudden motion caused Quasimodo to look upward, toward the man and the wagon. Phoebus turned to face his friend.

"That one has no place here, he's bad luck."

Quasimodo grew pale, his eyes clenching shut. He turned away.

Phoebus moved forward. "Quasimodo is a hero."

"Bollocks. As if his treachery were not made clear enough by looking at him." The man spat onto the ground. He waved his arm, taking a moment to look Quasimodo in the eye. "I would sooner have the pox than allow a Frollo in my wagon."

The man rolled the last rail out of the wagon. His friend untied the horses and took the reins into his hands.

"You and your gypsy may ride. That is my offer. You would be wise to accept it."

"My friends and I shall continue on, then. Good evening to you both." Phoebus gritted his teeth.

"You are a fool." The man cracked his whip, causing the horses to trot off.

Esmeralda turned to Quasimodo, who had now started toward the road. His pace was slow. She ran to him. He shuddered as her arms wrapped around him.

"Quasi, I'm sorry."

"I don't know what else I should have expected."

"About what I said earlier, I didn't know."

"How could you? The clergy told me this on Sunday." Quasimodo looked away from Esmeralda's eyes, and to the road. "I only want to go home, to the bell tower."

Esmeralda moved her hands to his uneven shoulders, blocking his path. Guiding his chin upward she stared into his eyes.

"You will be home tomorrow. For now, please stop. I can't watch you go on any longer." She took his hands into her own. "Your hands are like ice. We will make a fire. You can rest and warm yourself."

"Esmeralda, I'm fine. It's not much farther." Quasimodo stepped to the side. His right knee bent unexpectedly as he turned, causing him to stumble. Esmeralda took his hand as he reached out to balance himself.

"Quasi, look at me." He turned away. "The sun has gone. The day is over. We are nine miles from Paris and it's clear that you are barely able to walk. Please stop. If not for yourself, but for me. Rest the night."

Not a word reached him in the dim light. In silence, he held his eyes closed as Esmeralda gently stroked his cheek. She wiped the moisture from his left eye with her thumb. She guided him off the road, away from the fence and piles of rails. Obediently, he sat on the damp grass.

Phoebus gathered twigs while Esmeralda built a small fire. They sat near the flames, warming their hands. Quasimodo pulled his tattered cloak around his shoulders. He looked to his friends, who watched him intently. The warm glow of the fire cast a flattering light on both of them.

Phoebus watched as the dancing light cast Quasimodo's face into frightening shadows. Esmeralda's elbow jabbed into his side, causing him to look away for a moment. He tossed a few more twigs onto the fire.

"Where have you been?" Esmeralda asked. Her hands gestured toward the open fields. "You have barely been outside of Notre Dame. There is nothing to fear anymore."

"Isn't there?" Quasimodo looked from Esmeralda, to his outstretched palms. He stroked his right palm with his finger, then folded both hands into fists. For a moment, his eyes closed. When he opened them, his eyes focused into Esmeralda's. "A mere nine days after tying me to their pillory, how am I to believe their opinion has changed? For that moment, perhaps. What happened then, it could happen again."

"Quasi..." Esmeralda shook her head, her lips parted.

"I can't do it. Not now. Maybe not for a long time." Quasimodo shook his head. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders, drawing his hands under the fabric. "It was my duty to come here today. Now, I only want to return to Notre Dame. The bells are all I need."

"That's not true and you know it." Esmeralda muttered.

"That is well and good. However, there are some matters requiring your attention at the Palace of Justice." Phoebus leaned forward. "It seems that Claude Frollo left no heir. Legally, you're his son. You were Christened under his..."

"His name." Quasimodo finished sharply. "It was his name, not mine."

Phoebus sighed. "A priest may join you at the Palace, as will I."

"I can't." Quasimodo shook his head. "No."

"You won't be alone in this. The Court requires your presence. There is a small fief..."

"Phoebus, no."

Esmeralda poked at the fire with a stick. Embers floated into the air, drifting off into the starlight. The fire crackled and popped. She watched each of Quasimodo's movements by the firelight. His shoulders rolled forward, his forehead lowered.

"I know you mean well, both of you." Quasimodo rested his hands on his knees, his eyes fixed beyond the flames. "Frollo is gone, his name died with him. I know my place, it's in Notre Dame with the bells."

"How can you be so sure?" Esmeralda offered.

"There is no other place for me."

Esmeralda and Phoebus watched as Quasimodo sat in silence, staring into empty space. After a time, he turned, his back facing the fire. He gently slumped to his side, in what appeared to be an uncomfortable heap. He lay quietly under the cover of his cloak, the hump on his back rising and falling gently with each breath.

Esmeralda continued to poke at the fire.

"That could have waited until tomorrow." Esmeralda lowered the stick to her side. Smoke rose from the tip and drifted into the night air.

"Perhaps. Sleeping on it may also prepare him." Phoebus placed his arm around Esmeralda. "There is no choice in the matter. The judge will send messages addressed for 'Quasimodo Frollo' to Notre Dame until he arrives at the Palace of Justice. One letter has already been sent and will be waiting in the bell tower."

"As if he hasn't suffered enough already."

Phoebus kissed Esmeralda on the forehead. "Quasimodo is clever enough to figure out what needs to be done. He will get through this. We must simply remain nearby."

* * *

A five-year-old Quasimodo sat near the blazing fire, a blanket neatly tucked over his shoulders. He sat on the lap of an elder monk, one with white hair and clouded eyes. A goblet of warmed milk rested in his small hands. He drank from the cup, holding it near his chin between sips. A few monks and priests sat about, enjoying the warmth.

"A reed before the wind lives on, while mighty oaks do fall." The old monk gently lifted Quasimodo's hair from his face. "Be pliable, like the reed.*"

Quasimodo said nothing, yet intently watched and listened to him. The old monk smiled at the innocence of this strange child.

"Are you warm, Quasimodo?"

Quasimodo nodded, a hint of a smile crossing his misshapen face. The monk ruffled the boys red hair, scattering it in all directions.

The door swung open, cold air rushing into the room. The flames died back for a moment, before blazing upward.

"Where is he?" Claude Frollo spoke pointedly. The aged monk startled as Quasimodo buried himself into the blanket. The monk wrapped his arms around the young boy, leaning over him. He hugged him firmly when feeling the boy tremble.

Father Vanier stood, moving to block the door. Claude Frollo rushed forward, shoving him into the wall.

"You do not belong here!" Claude Frollo grasped Quasimodo's arm, painfully jerking him away from the arms of the monk. The goblet fell from Quasimodo's hand, spilling an arc of milk on the marble tiles. The blanket fell onto the floor.

"Frollo, have you no heart? He's a child!" Brother Laurent cried out. "He's welcome to stay here."

"He is not your responsibility." Claude Frollo held out his free hand, pointing at the monks and priests. "None of you are to interfere again."

"You willingly disobeyed me." Claude Frollo yanked on Quasimodo's arm, causing him to stumble.

"Master, I didn't mean to." Quasimodo's words were soft. He looked to the ground as he spoke. "I was cold."

A slap echoed through the room. Quasimodo's eyes grew wide as a red patch swelled on the side of his face. He sucked in his upper lip, which quivered as he looked toward his Master. The monks and priests grew silent, their eyes wide.

The old monk stood up and strode toward Claude Frollo, his aged legs shaking with each step. His cane echoed through the room. The others remained still.

"He is your responsibility, Claude. You make this poor child suffer." He stood before the Judge, his clouded eyes narrowed. "You may have Archdeacon Chevrier under your thumb, yet your threats do not scare me. What you're doing is wrong." He slammed his cane down, nearly cracking it.

"We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance." Claude Frollo stood tall, pulling Quasimodo behind him.

"...and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.**" The old man scoffed. "You're not preparing him for God, you are breaking him."

"Silence, old man!" Claude Frollo raised his arm.

"Claude, you would not dare." The old monk leaned toward Claude Frollo. "You confine Quasimodo to the bell-tower. What then? He freezes to death? Should he grow, what will he do there? What will become of him when you are gone?"

Claude Frollos eyes blazed as he stood before the old monk.

"Any of us would gladly help you raise this child, yet you resist." The old man held out the blanket that Quasimodo had been wrapped in. "Let us provide some comfort for him."

"Send what you will to the tower, then." He snatched the blanket from the old man. Claude leaned toward the monk, his words seething. "Quasimodo is not to leave the bell-tower again. Perhaps he will take interest in the bells. I shall make arrangements for his care."

Claude Frollo turned, pulling Quasimodo by the arm. Quasimodo struggled to follow, his uneven legs causing him to fall. Claude Frollo looked down at his ward, who pulled himself to his feet. Quasimodo averted his gaze to the floor. When he looked up, Claude Frollo was several steps away.

"Master, I can't go that fast."

"Why is that, Quasimodo?" Claude Frollo turned, his hands clasped, the blanket draped over them.

"My legs are small." Quasimodo looked to his bent, uneven legs.

"You are an abomination." Claude Frollo turned. "You walked here, you will walk back to the tower."

Claude Frollo watched as Quasimodo struggled through the cloisters, up the steps and into the North tower. He watched as Quasimodo climbed the steps into his tower home. His humped back and uneven legs caused him to fall on the cold stones, skinning his knees and palms. Once within the bell-tower, he dropped the blanket onto Quasimodo's lap.

"This shall keep you warm tonight, Quasimodo. Goodnight."

Quasimodo pulled himself onto his humble bed and wrapped the blanket around himself. With much frustration, he bundled the blanket around the back of his neck, covering his hump and frozen ears. Tears soaked into the blanket as he lay alone in the tower, under the bells.

* * *

* Aesop fable, "The Oak and the Reed."

 ****** Romans 5:3-5


	3. A Sleepless Night

A Sleepless Night

Quasimodo awoke disoriented, to the scent of smoke. He rolled himself from the cool, soft earth. Turning his attention to the sky, he watched the broad blanket of stars. The moon glowed from behind one of the many clouds that streaked the sky. To either side of him was darkness, a view identical to that from atop Notre Dame. Unlike the night from atop Notre Dame, there was no breeze. He shivered.

Reaching his hands over the frosted ground, he spread out his fingers in search of sticks and twigs. Finding none, he reached to his shoulders, pulling his cloak to his chilled ears. After wiggling his toes, he felt them warm slightly. As the clouds moved, moonlight revealed his sleeping friends and the fire.

Quasimodo knelt forward, nearer the faint red of dying embers. He piled the warm ashes and charred sticks toward the smallest red glow. Gently, he blew into the ashes, stirring smoke into the air. A small tongue of flame began to lick the unburnt branches. Smoke billowed from the stack of wet debris. The flames cut through the darkness, illuminating the surrounding fence and road.

Branches burned, sending sparks of red and orange light into the sky. The pile of rails sat nearby, Quasimodo reached under them, collecting pieces of bark and broken ends. He fed the fire.

Moving closer to the flames, Quasimodo warmed his chilled hands. His fingers grew hot. He brought his fingers to his face, resting his thumbs on his chin and his index fingers between his eyes. He watched sparks scatter from the damp wood and bark, shooting small red stars upward. His eyes followed the tiny lights as they faded into the night sky. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his palms, only moving to add twigs.

Quasimodo opened his eyes to see Phoebus had disappeared. Esmeralda approached him. Grasping his arms she pulled at him, drawing him away from the fire.

"Esmeralda, what are you doing? Where is Phoebus?"

"Reynard will take all of us back to Paris." Esmeralda beamed. "It will be a tight fit in the cart, yet we can get you home."

Quasimodo turned to see Phoebus burying the fire under soil. Esmeralda released his hand and walked off into the night. He stood in place, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Sighing in frustration, he remained still. They were probably calling for him, expecting him to follow their voices. He cupped his left hand behind his ear, struggling to hear the faintest shouting.

A large hand landed on his shoulder, gently pushing him forward. Looking to the right, he could see Phoebus' faint silhouette before the starry sky. Straining his eyes, he struggled to focus on a black blob on the road. The scent of horse sweat appeared on the air.

As the cart neared, he reached out, grasping its edge. He felt the cart tilt as Esmeralda stepped in. Phoebus' hand left his shoulder. Esmeralda's hands touched his arms. He stepped into the cart, seating himself among the sacks of grain and onions. The cart jutted forward, causing him to brace himself against the side of the cart. Esmeralda's hand patted his shoulder. A half smile appeared on Quasimodo's face, as he lowered his gaze to the road.

By the pale moonlight, Quasimodo watched the faint shadow of his shoes. Every movement, that of the horse, Reynard, Phoebus and Esmeralda, could be felt. He looked to his companions, they appeared as black shadows, moving and gesturing.

The cart trembled and bounced as the horse plodded down the frozen road. Quasimodo looked to his right, to see Esmeralda's hands moving about. To his left, he could see Phoebus laughing. Beyond their animated silhouettes, he could read nothing. They seemed oblivious to his presence in the cart, yet he could not be sure. He frowned, turning away from his friends, the first he'd ever had. They had found him, by some miracle.

He lifted his gaze to the sky, to the slow-moving clouds and band of stars. He smiled at the thought of Esmeralda's hand touching his cheek, of Phoebus sharing his wine with him. Even in silence, the message was clear. They cared for him like no one ever had.

Lowering his head, he again focused on his feet, which swung as shadows with each motion of the cart. His feet and legs grew numb, the rhythmic motion lulling him into a trance.

Behind closed eyes, Quasimodo imagined Claude Frollo. His robes were neat and clean, not a fold out of place. He was severe, calm and terrifying. Quasimodo clenched his eyes at the thought of what had become of his Master, his teacher. A pile of ashes, bones and blackened jewellery in the square.

Others gathered to lift the dead, and there were many, away for burial. Quasimodo had knelt, on his own, over the remains of Claude Frollo, scooping all that remained into a vegetable crate lined with burlap. He ignored those around him, choosing instead to focus on his grisly task. The words of others were meaningless, and likely hurtful. The whisk gathered ashes, bone fragments and bits of lead into a tray. He set the iron cross onto the pile of remains, before closing the lid. Wordlessly, he disappeared into Notre Dame.

There was no place for Claude Frollos remains. Quasimodo remained inside the cathedral, in a dark corner, clutching the box in his arms. Father Lacroix approached him, gently resting his hand on Quasimodo's. Quasimodo looked to Father Lacroix.

"You don't have to do this, Quasimodo." The priest placed his hands on the box, pulling it away from the bell-ringer. His grasp met resistance, as Quasimodo pulled the crate to his chest.

"I must, Father." He held the box closer. Lower lip trembling, he looked to the priest. "Where will he rest? Where must I go?"

"Unconsecrated ground, Quasimodo. Montfaucon will suffice."

Quasimodo looked down at the box, at the hemp strings fastening the lid.

"Somewhere that he will never be disturbed. Wherever that is, I will take him there."

Father Lacroix placed his hand on Quasimodo's shoulder and looked into his eyes.

"Arrangements will be made." Father Lacroix tugged the box from Quasimodo's grasp. "Until then, rest. I will ensure this is kept safe."

Quasimodo startled as Esmeralda nudged his shoulder. Looking upward, he smiled as the bell towers filled the sky. Cautiously, he stepped out of the cart, feeling it lift away from him as he stood on the cobbles. His hand was on the Cathedral door, when he turned to see the shadowy cart and horse disappear into the streets.

As he opened the door, he was met with the glow of a few candles. He lifted a single candle, cupping it's earthenware bowl in his hands. He started toward the stairs, to his tower. After placing his foot on the first step, he looked to the little flame in his hands. He frowned, then turned toward the nave. It had been a very long day. Everything was now quiet, a new day having only started. Maybe now, with Notre Dame was deserted, God would listen to him.

With uneven, pained steps, Quasimodo stepped over the checkerboard tiles. He limped past the pews, statues and frescos. As he continued, the scent of Frankincense grew stronger. His gait slowed as he approached the high altar. The flickering light in his hands caused the polished marble, glass and gold to sparkle.

Quasimodo stood a few steps away from the altar. The Virgin Mary sat calmly, Christ draped across her lap. They were surrounded by angels. All of them were perfect, their marble skin both flawless and timeless. Before them, a large golden cross shimmered by light of the candle.

Quasimodo took another step forward, his legs trembling. He swallowed. He looked to either side, following the light of the candle toward the shadows, for movement. The air was still. He breathed in deeply, then out, slowly. Gently, Quasimodo lowered himself to the floor, resting on his tired knees.

He drew a single wooden stick from the bowl before him. He swirled the beeswax next to his candle, then lowered the stick to the flame. The altar flashed brightly as flame swallowed the melted wax.

"Heavenly Father. Grant eternal rest unto him. Let perpetual light shine upon him..."

With a steady hand, he lifted the burning stick into the watched the smoke curl upward into the still air. His words echoed in his head. _"...because of your defects, you must not approach the altar."_ Quasimodo felt his hand begin to tremble.

"...May he rest..."

Before the flame could reach the candle, the stick fell from his hand. He closed his eyes.

"Heavenly Father. Please forgive me." Quasimodo stood, his legs complaining. He looked to his hands, then to the perfectly carved Virgin. "I'm sorry." Burying his face in his hands, he turned away from the altar.

As quickly as he could, Quasimodo moved toward the north tower. Without thought, he raced up the steps, toward his loft. Once in his sanctuary, he leaned against one of the beams. Pushing his right hand over his forehead and through his hair, he sighed heavily. He looked upward, into the darkness where his bells slept. He gestured his hand to the sky, to heaven.

"What am I supposed to do now?"

For a few moments, he remained still against the wall. The tower was dark, damp and as silent as ever. He lowered himself to the floor and removed his shoes. Cold air burned his exposed toes. Gently, he lowered himself onto his straw bed, pulling a moth-eaten wool blanket over his cloaked shoulders. He drew his feet under the blankets, kneading the blanket with his chilled toes. Within a few moments, his body began to relax. Aches moved through him, almost as a wave. A single beam of moonlight moved across the wooden floor, then faded to darkness.

* * *

"Quasimodo. Come here at once."

Quasimodo's eyes sprang open as Frollo's voice echoed through the bell tower. Hastily tossing his blanket aside, he stood at the top of the ladder. His eyes were wide at the sight of his Master standing at the bottom of the ladder, basket in-hand.

"Did you hear me boy? Now." Frollo spoke firmly, his words clear and pointed. He did not lift his gaze, nor did he move.

Quasimodo stepped down, then knelt to the floor. He folded his hands, as if in prayer. He looked to his Masters feet.

"A monk happened to notice you in the nave yesterday after the midnight prayer." Frollo ruffled Quasimodo's hair, causing him to look up. "Whatever brought you there, dear boy?"

"I was praying, Master." Quasimodo lowered himself further, his head tilted to the left. He watched Frollo with his right eye. Frollo placed his index finger under Quasimodo's chin, forcing him to look upward. A shiver moved up Quasimodo's shoulders and back, causing him to tremble.

"Whatever would you pray for?" Frollo sighed, staring at his ward with downcast eyes.

"To be with the other children, Master. If God could..."

Quasimodo's words stopped as he felt the back of his Masters hand strike the side of his face. The force caused his left cheek to press to his shoulder. Eyes clenched shut, Quasimodo breathed in sharply. He remained still and quiet.

"Ungrateful, selfish child! This is your sanctuary. Do you not understand? You are not to leave this place by either night or day." Quasimodo drew his small hand to his cheek, revealing blood. "Answer me, boy."

"I thought it was safe, Master." Quasimodo continued to lean into his shoulder. "That no one would see." His words were soft, almost whispered.

"God sees all, Quasimodo." Frollo remained still, his eyes remaining downcast. "Come this way."

Quasimodo watched as his Frollo ascended the ladder. With a bloodied hand, he grasped the edge of the ladder. Frollo guided him to the larger table in the centre of the room. The basket of provisions sat on the other side of a large, worn bible. After instructing Quasimodo to sit, Frollo opened the bible. He carefully moved through the pages, smoothing them with each turn. Quasimodo watched, in silence.

"Read for me, boy."

Quasimodo pulled himself onto the stool and looked at the artfully inked works. He began to read.

 _The LORD said to Moses_ _, "Say to Aaron: 'For the generations to come none of your descendants who has a defect may come near to offer the food of his God._

 _No man who has any defect may come near: no man who is blind or lame, disfigured or deformed; no man with a crippled foot or hand, or who is hunchbacked or dwarfed, or who has any eye defect, or who has festering or running sores or damaged testicles._

 _No descendant of Aaron the priest who has any defect is to come near to present the offerings made to the LORD by fire. He has a defect; he must not come near to offer the food of his God._ _He may eat the most holy food of his God, as well as the holy food; yet because of his defect, he must not go near the curtain or approach the altar, and so desecrate my sanctuary._

 _I am the LORD, who makes them holy._

As Quasimodo finished the last words, his eyes were filled with tears. "Master, I didn't know."

"What does this mean, Quasimodo?" Frollo placed a hand on Quasimodo's hump, holding him on the stool. "What is the word of God?"

Quasimodo looked at the words. His lips parted as if to speak. Instead, his lower lip quivered.

"Because of your defects, you are unfit to stand before God. Do not defile the altar of Notre Dame with your presence." Frollo lifted the basket from the table and stepped toward the ladder. Before descending, he turned to face Quasimodo once more. "I expect you to commit these passages to memory by this evening."

"I am sorry, Master. I will not disappoint you." Quasimodo nodded, his words trembling. Forcing a swallow, he sat as upright as nature allowed him. His stomach rumbled as he spoke.

Frollo turned once more. "Then Jesus answered and said: It is written..."

"...not in bread alone doth man live, but in every word that proceedeth from the mouth of God." **

"Very good, Quasimodo. For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it."*** Claude Frollo nodded upward, before turning a downward glance to Quasimodo. "I shall see you at sunset."

* * *

* Leviticus 21:18 - 22

** Matthew 4:4

***Hebrews 12:11


	4. Letters

The Letter

Quasimodo's eye snapped open. He pulled his tattered blanket closely to his cloaked shoulders. A winter breeze drifted through the tower, causing him to shiver. Around him, all was dark. He struggled to hold his eyelids open, to resist the nightmare that threatened to pull them closed.

"That is the past." Quasimodo moved his cold fingers over his head, mussing his hair. He then drew his hands to his chest, pulling the blanket snug around himself. He closed his eyes, only to see Claude Frollo in the other side of the room. "You are not here."

Quasimodo opened his eyes. He stood, his feet sliding on the frosted boards of the tower. He stepped forward into the darkness. The figure remained, drifting farther into the shadows as Quasimodo continued forward. As he reached the far wall, the image faded through the stones of the tower.

He lit a single candle on his work table, illuminating what remained of his model city. His eyes settled on the wooden Esmeralda. Her freshly-painted eyes smiled at him. He lifted the figure, moving her toward the tiny wooden Phoebus. He pressed the two figures into each other. He located his own little figure, toppled and rolled away from the rest. It was chipped and scratched, yet remained otherwise intact. He gently set it into the cracked model cathedral.

Behind the cathedral, sat a basket. Atop the checkered cloth, sat a letter sealed with wax. The seal of Paris lay over the folded paper. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

 _January 15, 1482_

 _Monsieur Quasimodo Frollo,_

 _Your attendance at the Palace of Justice is required to address the estate of the late Claude Frollo. The council, Vassal and lawyer of the late Claude Frollo will meet within the Great Room at noon of January 18, 1482._

 _Justice Florentin Moreau_

Quasimodo set the letter on the table. He looked to his shattered model city, then to the letter. Again, he took the letter into his hand and re-read it. Drawing a roll from the basket, he pulled off a piece to eat. He stared at the letter before him, then to each side. Darkness surrounded him. He turned once more, as if feeling his presence.

The letter remained in his left hand. Lowering his head to his right palm, he stared at the date. Phoebus had warned him. Leaving the letter, he lowered a glass tube over the candle and stood. Finding his shoes, he slipped them on. Without thought, he walked away from the candle light. Expertly, he passed through the maze of ladders and beams. His blanket dragged the floor behind him.

Quasimodo sat on the roof on the north tower. Overhead, the broad band of stars remained, ever constant. He watched the sky, his eyes focused into the distance. As time passed, the stars faded into the paler blue of twilight. Toward the east, the morning star began to grow in brightness. Remaining still, he watched as the slightest glow of teal appeared over the hills. The light grew brighter, into a bright blue haze. A bright yellow glow began to overtake the gentle blue. Quasimodo then returned to his only purpose, sounding the bells. Birds scattered from the tower as he marked the beginning of a new day.

Quasimodo landed on the floor, his feet thudding upon hitting wooden boards. Movement in the shadows caught his attention, followed by the flowing of fabric. Quasimodo froze. From under a curtain, a goat trotted toward him. Quasimodo relaxed, his shoulders lowering. Without thought, his hand passed over the goats head and under her chin. Djali leaned to his side, seeking attention.

"Esmeralda?" Quasimodo stepped toward the ladder, where a dim glow flickered. He looked to see Esmeralda climbing toward him.

"Quasi, I'm so glad to see you." Esmeralda stood before him, smiling. "Phoebus and I were worried about you yesterday."

"There was nothing to worry about." Quasimodo scratched Djali's chin.

"After not seeing you for two days, we find you far out of Paris. We were lucky to find you at all. Something could have happened." Esmeralda enveloped his hand within her own. "Phoebus and I would have come with you, if only to prevent you walking so far."

"It was my duty. I needed to go alone." Quasimodo muttered. Esmeralda frowned.

"Even so, I was worried. Were something to happen to you..." Esmeralda stopped her words as Quasimodo turned away. She lightly tugged his arm, causing him to look back. "You don't need to be alone anymore."

Quasimodo slumped his shoulders, turning away slightly. His gaze shifted from the floor to Esmeralda. He reached out to a beam with the closed fist of his right hand. His eyes remained fixed on his fingers as they unfolded around the familiar structure. He turned to Esmeralda.

"I don't belong out there." His left arm folded around the beam, drawing the beam to his chest. Resting his forehead on the wood, he turned a sideways glance to Esmeralda. "I can't go there again now. No one but you and Phoebus will speak with me. Have you seen the way people look at me?" Quasimodo shook his head. before looking back to his friend. "They stare. They point."

"They just don't know what to say. They need time to know you." Esmeralda reached for his hand. Quasimodo remained still, firmly grasping the wooden beam. "For a while, it will be tough. Phoebus and I will be there with you."

Quasimodo released the beam and stepped toward his model city. Esmeralda remained at his side.

"Please, come with me to the marketplace. We could buy some sweet cakes, walk by the Seine." Esmeralda pleaded. "There is so much out there for you. Mulled wine, live music and dancing, festivals..."

"Esmeralda, I appreciate what you're trying to do. For now, it's best I stay here. I have much to think about."

Quasimodo picked up the letter and offered it to Esmeralda.

"Quasi. Most don't know letters." She looked into his eyes, leaving the paper in his hand. "Change can be good. It may seem hard now, yet everything will get better." Esmeralda walked with him through the tower.

"By the way, I am sorry about yesterday. I had no idea that it's your name as well."

"It's not my choice. He adopted me after he..." Quasimodo stopped, his eyes darting toward the Palace of Justice. "...took me in."

"What will you do here, alone?"

"What I've always done, I suppose." He stood near Esmeralda, who looked up, toward the bells, shaded by beams, fabric and each other. Dust motes formed as rays of sun crept into the tower.

"It's so dark in here." She moved, as if to touch his arm. "If you choose not to stay in the light, may some of it come into this place?"

"What do you mean?"

"The daylight doesn't shine into this tower as well as it could. It's dusty in here, as well. You sit on broken sculptures rather than proper chairs made from reeds." Esmeralda motioned to the corner. "Your bed can't possibly be comfortable for you, either."

"My bed is fine. You worry too much." Quasimodo looked to the dreary, shaded curtained rooms and rows of broken sculptures.

Esmeralda pulled the corner of a thick sheet. A cloud of dust burst into the air. Light spilled onto the both of them.

"I don't know what to do." Quasimodo stepped back, away from the morning light. "I thought I knew. That was before the Feast of Fools. Now, everything has just..." His words trailed off.

"It will come to you. For now, your life is finally beginning. Embrace it. Enjoy it." Esmeralda took both of his hands into hers and smiled at him. "I will be back later with Phoebus. I will see you then, my friend."

Quasimodo felt Esmeralda's fingers drift from his palms. He remained in the shadow, watching the dust filter through the light, appearing almost as a veil.

Esmeralda called Djali to her side and moved toward the tower steps. Quasimodo watched as her bouncing black curls disappeared from view. He walked through the rooms of his tower home. The three chimeras, those who had been his only friends, sat motionless. They had remained stone since the night of the siege.

He carried the chimeras outside, setting them on the parapet. He turned them toward la Place de Grève. He lifted Laverne into his arms, her stone wings neatly folded. Her once warm hands remained curled and still. He returned her to the ledge, turning her to face his bell tower.

Resting his elbows on the stone, he leaned forward. He cast a sideways glance at the chimera. Her eyes were smooth, lacking any hint of a pupil. He passed his hand over her stone head, over the stone horns. For a few moments his hand rested on her back.

"Everything is changing so fast." He spoke to Laverne. His eyes focused on the square, on the city that had awoken to a cold morning. He folded his arms on the parapet, leaning forward onto them. He remained there, the cool morning breeze passing over him. No stone hand touched his shoulder, no claw-like fingers grasped his hump. He lifted his chin, scanning the square. People moved throughout the square, few glancing up.

Quasimodo left the parapet and walked through the tower. He removed more of the fabric that shaded his home, allowing the light to stream in. Later, he would meet with Archdeacon Chevrier at the Hotel Dieu. Other than Claude Frollo, Archdeacon had known him the longest.

* * *

 _May 5, 1476_

The tower trembled with each pull of the rope. Quasimodo felt himself lifted with each swing of the bell. As the bell lifted him, he released himself from the rope, throwing himself into the air. His callused hands gripped the rope of a smaller bell, causing it to ring full-circle. Quasimodo laughed as the sound of the bells reached through his broken ears. He felt their thunder in his chest.

The largest bell let out a final toll as Quasimodo lowered himself to the floor. He started at the sight of a white-clothed figure standing in the tower. He quickly pulled himself behind a beam and watched the figure.

His motion caused the figure to turn. Quasimodo gripped the beam, his eyes scanning the figure. He held his breath until he saw the mans face. Archdeacon Chevrier approached him. He carried a basket over his arm and a book in his hand. Quasimodo breathed out, releasing the wooden beam from his grasp.

The Archdeacon watched him, his lips moving. He smiled at him, then motioned toward the table. Quasimodo stepped out of the shadows, following the clergyman.

Quasimodo scanned the rest of the tower, looking for Claude Frollo. He looked to the Archdeacon, who shook his head. The Archdeacon sat at the table, setting the book and basket among the figures. None of the figures toppled. Having picked up the figure of a shepherd, he smiled. Quasimodo watched as the mans lips moved. Quasimodo's lips parted slightly. Should he speak? His eyes followed the rapid motion of the Archdeacons lips. Suddenly, his lips stopped moving.

The Archdeacon lifted the book in his hands, then patted the stool next to him. Slowly, Quasimodo approached. He sat on the stool. He felt the stare of the Archdeacon upon him.

The Archdeacon unfolded the parchment, revealing a book of blank paper pages. A few quills and jars of ink were positioned on the table, as well. He set the basket between himself and Quasimodo.

The Archdeacon continued to watch him closely. Quasimodo turned to face him, to look in his eye. The Archdeacon frowned.

The Archdeacon raised his hand toward the wool that protruded from Quasimodo's ears. Swiftly, Quasimodo turned away. He lifted his hand to his ear, hiding the wool. The Archdeacons hand rested on his own. He stared into the Archdeacons eyes for a moment. His eyes then closed and he allowed his hand to fall away from his ear. His glance shifted once more to the Archdeacon. The Archdeacons lips moved slowly.

"Such is the fate of every bell ringer." Quasimodo shook his head in dismay. "You will learn to read lips."

"I thought that there could be nothing else wrong with me." His words were stuttered and rushed.

"You are a clever boy." The Archdeacon smiled sadly. "In time, it will seem natural to you. Remember to keep packing your ears and perhaps, something will remain. For now, let us pray and we shall eat."

"You would... you would eat with someone like me?"

The Archdeacon nodded. He pulled two wooden discs from the basket, setting one before Quasimodo. They prayed. Archdeacon Chevrier then placed three rolls on Quasimodo's plate. Drawing a small jar from the basket, he removed the lid. He slid the jar toward Quasimodo.

"What is it?" Quasimodo stared at the jar. His words were soft, his voice trembling.

The Archdeacon placed a spoon into the jar and lifted out a heap of thick liquid. Bits of fruit fell away, back into the jar.

"Plum jam."

* * *

Having piled many of the curtains and broken sculptures in one place, Quasimodo looked through the dusty tower. The air, although cold, did feel warmer with the sunlight. He dusted his hands on his tunic and looked to the stairs. Archdeacon Chevrier would be waiting for him.

Quasimodo counted the 387 steps from his tower to the nave of the cathedral. As he descended the stairs, currents of warm air drifted over him. With the walls of the nave, the cathedral was heated. As he walked toward the door to the infirmary, Father Lacroix approached him.

"Quasimodo. If you have a moment, we would like to discuss something with you."

"We?" Quasimodo raised his eyebrow.

"Come. There is much to discuss." Quasimodo tentatively followed the priest through Notre Dame, past the altar and out of Notre Dame, into the cloister.

Quasimodo stood before the open door to the Chapter house, where a group of clergy sat. Some turned their heads as he was directed into the room. Father Vanier pulled a chair away from the table.

"Be seated, Quasimodo." Quasimodo swallowed nervously. He lifted his eyes, scanning the faces of those who sat around the table. His eyes rested on the priest who has brought him here. Father Lacroix nodded. He sat.

"As you are well aware, you have been of service to the Church for many years. As the bell-ringer of Notre Dame de Paris, you have yet to take upon the full duties of your post."

"I do not understand. I've missed three tollings in six years."

"Quasimodo, not once have you attended mass. You have never been to a celebration."

"I could not. Everyone here knows that."

"You are welcome now. All of us appreciate the work you do. We struggled with the simplest tollings yesterday." Father Lacroix laughed. "You have yet to receive acknowledgment for performing your duties. That must be remedied." The priest handed him a letter, this one also bearing a wax seal.

Quasimodo peeled away the wax and read the letter. Once again, under the date, the letter was addressed to 'Quasimodo Frollo.' The Bishop had written and signed the letter.

"It says that I am to maintain the candles each evening, secure the doors at sunset and, when needed, guide those in need to sanctuary." Quasimodo set the parchment onto the table. "These duties, they are all..."

"In the nave. Yes, Quasimodo."

"The Altar... I must not." Quasimodo leaned away from the table, away from the letter. He shook his head in disbelief.

"The consensus among us priests is that God would not look down upon his own child." Father Vanier spoke.

"The citizens must grow accustomed to what makes you different." Another priest spoke. "If they see you each day, working in the cathedral, they will become more comfortable in your presence."

"You are not a prisoner, you may come and go as you please. In return for performing your duties, you shall earn the wages outlined by the Bishop."

"That is very kind." Quasimodo looked to the men that surrounded him. He took the letter into his hand, staring at that maligned name 'Frollo' so flippantly tacked onto own. "Is this what I must do?"

"Most of us feel it best, which is why you have that letter."

Quasimodo looked away from Father Lacroix, to the letter. "Must I begin so soon?"

"The sooner you begin, the sooner Paris will grow accept you, as God made you."

Quasimodo sighed, his glance shifting back to the second line of the letter. He watched Father Lacroix once more.

"For now, we do expect to see you within the nave more frequently. You must attend at least one mass each day and bear the colours of your position while in the nave. Paris needs to understand that you are a member of the church. The Chamberlain will see to your fitting."

"Before you leave, there is one more concern that must be addressed."

Quasimodo sat quietly, his eyes scanning the group of men for words. He folded the paper, peeling the wax away with his thumb. He shifted his gaze between Father Vanier and Father Lacroix.

"There is concern that the bell tower is not a suitable living space."

"It's fine." Quasimodo stuttered. He sat up quickly as the words escaped him.

"Even so. The Abbey is comfortable, warm and near to the library and cloisters. There are also rooms available within the cathedral school."

"With all due respect, the bell-tower... it is my home. I prefer to sleep under the bells."

"Very well. Should you change your mind, there is a warmer room available for you. The Chamberlain awaits your arrival." Father Vanier stood. "You are dismissed."


	5. Red & Purple

Red & Purple

A monk led Quasimodo to the Chamberlain, Brother Laurent, then walked off. Quasimodo stood at the open door, cautiously peeking into the room. A white-haired man appeared in the entrance. His brown robes trailed behind him, over the spotless floor. Shelves lined the walls, each filled with folded stacks of fabric and clothing. A table lay in the centre of the room, with clothes in various stages of completion sitting in a heap.

"The mysterious bell-ringer arrives at last." Brother Laurent looked into Quasimodo's eyes. "Monsieur Quasimodo Frollo."

"Please, don't call me that." Quasimodo turned his gaze away for a moment, toward his shoulder.

"So what I've heard is true." Brother Laurent urged him forward. "Please wait here. Yes, there is fine. Remove your shirt for me."

"I would rather not, if you don't mind." Quasimodo shifted in place, moving his gaze to the floor. The monk watched as Quasimodo stood, his shoulders folded toward his chin and his knees bent at an uncomfortable-looking angle. His stance made the hump on his back more prominent, as if it were a small mountain pushing him to the floor rather than a part of him.

"I suppose it is not necessary, this fabric is thin." He lightly set his finger on a patched area, near Quasimodo's right shoulder. Quasimodo pulled away slightly. The Chamberlain frowned and shook his head in dismay. "Your clothing is in poor repair, nearly rags. The stitching is acceptable, yet there are too many patches. Not at all suitable or proper." Brother Laurent unfurled his measuring tape.

"I patch my own clothes." Quasimodo faced the floor, watching the monk from below his awkward eyebrows.

"That will no longer be required." He passed the tape around Quasimodo's waist. "Father Vanier has informed me that you will be attending mass, as well as celebrations. You must appear presentable."

"That won't be possible." Quasimodo mumbled with a forced laugh.

"I was speaking of your attire." The Chamberlain stated firmly. He placed one hand on each of Quasimodo's shoulders. He waited until Quasimodo looked directly at him, holding his breath. His eyes were wide, scanning the face of the monk. "God made you with his own hand, to serve a purpose. Men of God do not question His creation. None of us will look at the mere mote in your eye.*"

Quasimodo breathed out. His expression softened, his shoulders released their tension.

"You really mean that?"

"Your appearance is... surprising at first. You are also a loyal servant of God." Brother Laurent released his hands from Quasimodo's shoulders. "As I can see from your attire, it's a miracle that you've not caught your death from cold in that tower."

"Ringing the bells keeps me warm." The Chamberlain caught a hint of a smile from Quasimodo.

"Perhaps. Yet you do not ring the bells while sleeping. What have you for a blanket and woolens?"

Quasimodo looked to Brother Laurent, his eyes widened for a moment. He said nothing.

"Are you able to stand with your knees a bit straighter?" Quasimodo followed the orders of the Chamberlain and extended his knees. He looked down to see his toes almost touching. He remained quiet and still as he was measured, holding the tape when asked. He watched as the old monk made notes onto a sheet of paper. He broke the silence.

"What have you heard?"

"The name 'Frollo' bothers you." The monk continued to write notes on his page. "I understand why it might. I have been in Notre Dame for over forty years, and have been Chamberlain for longer than you have been alive. Please listen when I say it is nothing to be ashamed of."

Quasimodo watched the old monk as he jotted down numbers and drew lines on his page. He passed his measuring tape over Quasimodo's head.

"Years before Claude Frollo became the Minister of Justice, he was a studying to become a priest." Quasimodo flinched as his neck was measured. "His parents were kind, charitable people. They were well-off and respected, funding his education with the proceeds of their fief. When the black death took them, Claude was left with his infant brother, Jehan. He changed his study to Law, to allow himself time to care for him."

"Master never said anything about having a brother."

"He ceased to mention him after he vanished." Brother Laurent backed himself toward one of the many shelves. "His intent was good, yet Jehan grew spoiled and wild. He ran off shortly after Claude became the Minister of Justice. Over the next few months, Claude changed. I suppose he blamed the gypsies for his brothers disappearance."

The monk turned to the shelf, thumbing through the fabrics. He pulled a pair of dark gray leggings from the stack, as well as knitted stockings and a blanket. He held them before Quasimodo.

"Put these on. Take these to the bell-tower with you. I grow chilled just looking at you."

Brother Laurent pulled a very large dark-purple tunic with red trim from the stack of unfinished clothes. He held it out.

"It's soft." Quasimodo ran his fingers over the wool. "Red and purple? The colours are..." Quasimodo paused. His hand lingered on the wool. "They are bright."

"The colours of a bell-ringer. You have earned them."

Quasimodo remained still. "What happened to Jehan?"

"No one knows. Five years later, another child fell into his hands, under the most unfortunate circumstance. Most of us knew that Claude Frollo was firm with the child. Only when he began locking the access to the bell-tower did we become suspicious."

"If Jehan had remained with his brother..." Quasimodo's words trailed off.

"The bells would not sing so beautifully. Bernard would be proud of your talent." The Chamberlain turned while Quasimodo changed his clothes. When he turned back, Brother Laurent began pinching, tugging and pinning the tunic. "There is nothing to gain from wondering what might have been."

"Then why do you say these things?" Quasimodo's eyelids narrowed.

"You must understand that if one man may spoil the good name of a family, another may restore it." "The name is yours, even if you deny it. Bring honour to it, as did those who bore it before."

Quasimodo lifted his arms as Brother Laurent basted the fabric.

"Your presence was never forgotten." Brother Laurent lifted Quasimodo's left arm, measuring to his wrist. "Until Bernard died, there was no way for us to reach you. None of us had a key to the tower, or could scale the walls."

"Bernard never spoke to me, yet appeared each morning. " Quasimodo sighed. "Then, he was gone."

"After eight years of ringing the bells, he could hear nothing and lost his words." Brother Laurent scribbled on his page. "He still taught you well, Quasimodo."

"The first time I tried to ring Jean-Marie, he laughed at me." Quasimodo smiled. "I climbed her rope, upset that she would not sing. Then, I could not climb down on my own. What happened to him?"

"He fell in the South tower, during a storm." Brother Laurent paused. "Bells sometimes throw people during thunder. You were young at the time, about thirteen or so. You already knew the bells by name, and how to sound them perfectly."

Quasimodo lifted the edge of the tunic, passing his hands over the boldly coloured wool.

"This is simple, yet will keep you warm and satisfy the immediate need." He lifted Quasimodo's arms, assessing the positioning of his seams. "To make what your position requires will take time. A doublet has been suggested, yet I doubt it will serve you well."

The Chamberlain tugged at one sleeve. "Raise your arms above your head."

Quasimodo lifted his arms, then lowered them. The Chamberlain noted the sleeves, feeling the fit of the cuffs. He loosely attached buttons. "This will fit well. Have it off so it may be sewn. It must be ready before you meet with Justice Moreau."

"You know about that?"

"Lawyers for Claude Frollos estate were in Notre Dame yesterday, searching for you." The Chamberlain stepped back, admiring the lay of the fabric. "For the past twenty-five years, many have suffered because of Claude Frollos actions. This could be your chance to undo some of that harm."

"What could I possibly do?" Quasimodo lifted his worn green tunic from the floor.

"More than you may think." The Chamberlain turned away, waiting for Quasimodo to pass the red and purple tunic back to him. "This will be ready by sundown, be sure to have it before you attend mass. For now, you'd best tend your bells. It's near noon."

Quasimodo stood still for a moment, as if ready to speak. Instead, he nodded. He pulled his shoes over his feet and left Brother Laurent in his room of fabrics. Brother Laurent turned the tunic inside-out, examining the strange lines in the tunic.

"May God guide you through this and heal whatever harm has been done."

* * *

Quasimodo walked through the cloisters and behind the choir of Notre Dame. He paused before stepping into the path that would lead him to the bell-tower. People were trickling into the church in small groups. He remained behind the columns, walking in the more shadowed areas.

Resting among the columns, Clopin leaned against the wall. His large hat was gone, rendering him less recognizable. Rather than appearing like a youthful jester, he appeared old and balding. Bandages encased his right arm and chest. A group surrounded him, some drinking from wooden cups. Most of them were wrapped in knitted blankets. Clopin nodded at Quasimodo as he passed by. Quasimodo paused to look at the group, some of whom turned away at the sight of him. He continued on his way.

Once in the stairway, beyond the spiral staircase, the air grew colder and cleaner. Through the dark steps and ladders, Quasimodo made his way toward the bells. He shivered as the cold air touched his tired body. Once in the tower, he looked up, into the frosted air. He grasped the rope of Emmanuel and set him into motion.

Having sounded the bells, Quasimodo looked from the tower and into the square. People now flocked toward Notre Dame. They wore thick woolen cloaks and coats. Waves of white snowflakes gusted across the street, twirling into little cones and eddies. Quasimodo shivered.

Seizing his cloak from its hook, Quasimodo wrapped it around his shoulders. He looked to his blankets. It would be slothful to rest while the sun remained in the sky. The sun would set within five hours. Quasimodo touched his eyelids, feeling their puffiness. He clenched them, wiping away the sleep that fought for control of his body. He opened his eyes, only to feel his eyelids grow heavy once more.

He looked toward the blankets on the floor. If only for a few moments, he would rest. Quasimodo fluffed the flattened straw and laid the thinner blanket upon it. He pulled the new blanket over his shoulder and rolled onto his right side, resting his chin on his elbow. Within seconds, his eyelids became heavy. Less than a minute later, he was snoring lightly.

* * *

Quasimodo sat at his table, reading Leviticus 21:18 - 22. He could hear the words in his head, in his own voice, as he repeated them. Within him, his stomach burned and cramped from hunger. His eyes throbbed. Chills crept up his crooked spine, causing him to tremble on the wooden stool. He pulled his blanket snugly around his back and shivered into it. He relaxed his jaw in an attempt to stop it from chattering. The words on the paged shimmered as he forced himself to focus on the parchment.

His concentration broke as a woven basket appeared next to him. He stared at the basket, at the linen cloth that covered it. A corked bottle poked out from under the cloth. A piece of bread sat next to the bottle, only slightly visible.

 _"No. Not again."_ Quasimodo lifted his hands from his chest and placed them near the basket. The blanket folded away, draping on either side of his neck. He attempted to reach under the cloth, into the basket. His hands would not obey him. He felt his body tremble in protest. _"You are not here. This is not real. This is not now."_ The words refused to leave his lips. He turned to his left. Claude Frollo stood next to him.

"Have you learned your lesson, dear boy." Claude Frollo nodded, his mouth smiling, his eyes scowling.

"Oh, yes Master." Quasimodo felt the words leave him. He heard them, as clear as daybreak. _"Stop. This is not real. Stop talking."_ Quasimodo felt himself cringe internally as he calmly repeated the verses. His mouth moved on its own, parroting the words from Leviticus.

"Very good, my boy. Now, you shall eat." A wooden plate was laid before him.

Quasimodo felt Claude Frollos fingers extend around the hump on his back. He could feel the rings and long fingers of his Master pressing into him, holding him in place. His eyes remained fixed on the basket and table, despite his efforts to look away.

"You are a clever lad. Here, I brought you these." A bundle of grapes was laid on his plate.

 _"This is all a lie."_ Quasimodo watched his own hands, against his will, lift some of the grapes from the plate. He chewed them, yet they were tasteless. His stomach remained empty and complaining. "Thank-you very much."

"When your worthless mother abandoned you here, no one wanted you. Had I not taken you in as my son, you would have died. This place, it is your sanctuary. Here, you are away from the corruption that would send you to burn within Hell. You should be thankful, Quasimodo, for all that I've done for you."

"I am grateful, Master." _"You are lying to me."_ His tongue remained stubbornly tied, refusing to release his words. He could feel Claude Frollo's hand brushing his cheek. _"Please don't touch my face. I don't like having my face touched."_

"You must understand that people outside of these walls will never accept someone like you."

"I understand, Master. You are good to me." Quasimodo fought to look away. _"You are wrong. A few have. Others may still."_ Claude Frollo's fingers dug into his chin, forcing him to look upward at an uncomfortable angle. He could feel the penetrating stare of Claude Frollo's eyes burning into him.

"Read Matthew 13:24-30. I expect you to know it by tomorrow morning." He felt his chin release suddenly from Claude Frollo's hand.

"I will not disappoint you, Master." Quasimodo felt himself choking slightly. _"Have I ever pleased you? Have I ever been anything to you, other than a disappointment?"_

"That's a clever boy." Quasimodo tried to pull away. Instead, his eyes remained open, fixating on Claude Frollo's flowing black robes. Other than a slight lowering of his chin, his body remained still. He felt the velvet sleeve on Frollo's left arm brush against his cheek. He felt his hair being mussed.

A few strands of hair pulled out, having wrapped around the many rings on Claude Frollo's fingers. He watched as the hand lifted away from his hair, yanking out a few strands. He watched as Claude Frollo walked away from him, disappearing down the ladder. He felt himself turning toward the basket and his fingers reaching within. Purple grapes filled the basket. Neither bread nor wine could be found.

The words on the page changed from the parable of the tares.

"You are an abomination, Quasimodo. You are repulsive, unworthy of fellowship or fondness. Others will abhor your loathsome form. You are ungrateful, unappreciative."

 _"These words are not in the bible. This is not real. Wake up."_

Quasimodo struggled, willing the words on the page to change. Not only did the words remain, they filled the page. Words moved about the page, spreading over the parchment. Quasimodo jumped as a hand grasped his arm and violently shook him. His eyes clenched shut.

 _"Let go of me."_

Quasimodo opened his eyes to find himself laying on the floor. He kicked himself back, away from the arm and shadow that held him.

"Let go!" Quasimodo pulled away, his arm lashing out in an arc.

He cowered as far into the beams as possible, guarding his face with his hands. Once pressed against a sculpture, he breathed out. His eyes remained wide, a wild stare turning to the hand that reached out to him.

Unsure of what to do, Esmeralda remained on the floor. Cautiously, she extended her hand toward Quasimodo.

"Esmeralda?" Quasimodo lowered his hands, cautiously lifted himself to sitting position. His fingers remained spread on the floor, balancing his trembling shoulders. His breathing remained shaky, nearly gasping. Esmeralda turned her palm upward, offering it to him.

"Quasi, what happened to you? You appear to have seen a ghost."

* * *

* Referring to Matthew 7:2-5.


	6. Looking Forward

Looking Forward

"Quasimodo, you're scaring me."

Esmeralda's hand rested between his nose and the ground. He looked to her, his eyes wide. Behind her, Phoebus appeared, a steaming kettle in his hand. Quasimodo brought himself to his knees.

"I'm fine, Esmeralda. Phoebus." He sighed, closing his eyes. Esmeralda placed her hand onto his forearm, feeling the chilled gooseflesh of his bare skin. Quasimodo leaned toward the sculpture, using it to bring himself to his feet. He stumbled as he stood, leaning onto the nearest beam.

"You're white as snow. Have you eaten anything today?"

"I had a roll earlier." Quasimodo shrugged. He stepped away from the beam, wobbling slightly. He returned his hand to the aged timber. Esmeralda pouted.

"The same roll that you did not finish? The one that was sitting on the table when I visited you earlier?" She crossed her arms. "You'll not keep your strength if you don't eat, Quasi. "

"We brought our meal here, to share with you." Phoebus held up a kettle. "Hot apple cider."

"Where did you get cider in January?" Quasimodo raised his right eyebrow and stared at the kettle.

"Stored apples, pressed fresh this morning." Esmeralda smiled. "There is also some fresh bread and a pot of stew. Phoebus and I figured you'd appreciate a hot meal. We've been keeping it warm, while waiting for your return. We didn't know you were here."

"It's surprising. The monks and I sounded like a team of horses while moving stuff around." Phoebus moved the kettle to his other hand, then disappeared into depths of the tower.

Quasimodo peered around the beam, to where Phoebus had walked. A current of warm air passed over him. He held his hand out, spreading his fingers into the air. He looked to Esmeralda. "Moving things around? What has been happening in here?"

"Phoebus and I are adding a few comforts for you." Esmeralda stepped back, allowing Quasimodo to step away from his bed. She held her hand near his chest, stopping him from walking around the corner. "Quasi, is there something that you're not telling us? Something Phoebus and I need to know about why we found you sleeping?"

"Esmeralda, it's no concern. It's been a very long week and I'm rather tired." He smiled weakly.

"That's not what I mean." Esmeralda crossed her arms over her chest. She shook her head at him.

"There is nothing to worry about. I'm..." Quasimodo looked up to the bells. "Loud sounds don't wake me anymore." He pulled his blanket from his shoulders, draping it over his arm.

Esmeralda placed her fingers to her forehead, kneading the skin. "Very well. Come, you must be famished after not eating all day."

Quasimodo stepped around the corner. Heat radiated from a metal bin. The bin sat upon flat stones. Gone were many of the broken sculptures. In their place, a pile of objects lay under cover of a large sheet. Under his feet, he could see the floor had been swept.

"What is this?" Quasimodo passed his fingers over the sheet. His eyes turned to Phoebus, who placed a piece of wood into the fire. "You brought a fireplace into the tower? That seems excessive."

Phoebus and Esmeralda looked to each other.

"It's not and you know it. You're obviously cold in here. Snow blows in, for goodness sake." Esmeralda filled a wooden cup with cider "Drink, eat and warm yourself by the fire."

Quasimodo looked to his cloak, noting that his arms were crossed to his chest, under the worn fabric. He stepped forward, accepting a space before the fire. All three sat on the floor. Esmeralda filled the wooden bowls with stew. Phoebus filled the wooden cups with cider. Quasimodo watched the glowing coals in the metal bin. He brought his hands from under the cloak.

"Thank you." Quasimodo accepted the hot bowl of stew. "Not just for this, but for everything you're doing. Neither of you had to do any..."

"We wanted to." Esmeralda stated, while reaching for the kettle.

Quasimodo smiled. He unfastened his cloak, letting it fall behind him. Phoebus dipped his bread into the stew, scooping it. Esmeralda topped Phoebus' cup.

"The monks brought an assortment of books up here earlier." Phoebus motioned to the table. "There were more than a dozen."

Quasimodo noted the crate, sitting on the floor near his table. The model city was undisturbed. A new chair sat next to the table, beside his old wooden stool. Light flooded the table, all of the heavy curtains having been pulled away.

"Will you read them all, Quasi?" Esmeralda asked him.

Quasimodo remained focused on Phoebus, who now sipped his cider. Phoebus looked to Esmeralda, smiling. Esmeralda smiled back, nodding softly. "You should eat before it gets cold."

They ate in peace, Esmeralda and Phoebus exchanging glances. Whether it was the effects of the warm fire, or the meal, Quasimodo seemed to resume a slightly more normal colour while they ate. After finishing their meal, they remained near the fire for a time. Esmeralda sighed as she looked at what remained in Quasimodo's bowl and cup. Esmeralda was the first to stand.

"The monks informed Phoebus and I that you were to meet with the Archdeacon. Maybe you and Phoebus should walk over while it is still light."

"It's the ninth hour. The bells require my attention." Esmeralda followed Quasimodo's gaze to the mound of objects, covered with a drape. "It's best you stand on the transept. I won't look under the sheet, I promise."

"Very well. Phoebus and I will meet you there." Esmeralda gathered her own cloak and passed it over her shoulders. Quasimodo remained alone in the tower. He climbed into the rafters and put the bells into motion.

Quasimodo emerged from the bell-tower shortly after the last peal. His cloak lay over his shoulders, the hood covering his ears and brow. Esmeralda and Phoebus stood where two broken columns remained as short pillars. A broken chain remained locked around one, circling it as a belt. Phoebus held the broken end of chain in his hand, swinging it until the cracked link fell away. He dropped the chain and stepped toward Quasimodo.

"Esmeralda has a few plans for your tower." Phoebus motioned toward the south tower. "You'd best walk away until Vespers. Look forward to the surprise. Don't worry, she won't touch your models."

"Three hours is a long time." Quasimodo looked over the parapet.

"We'll find something to do."

"I'd rather not." Quasimodo shifted his weight as he stood. He wrung his hands.

"You have yet to visit the Hotel Dieu to meet with Archdeacon Chevrier. I will walk with you."

Quasimodo looked to Esmeralda who nodded at him.

"Go on." She smiled at him. "I'll be here when you return."

Phoebus and Quasimodo disappeared into the south tower.

* * *

Phoebus stepped out of Notre Dame. As he stood beyond the open door, he turned. Quasimodo stood inside the cathedral, his eyes fixed onto the cobbles in the square. Phoebus watched as Quasimodo swallowed and nodded firmly. Hesitantly, he placed a foot onto the cold stones. Snow and cold air blasted him as he stepped outside. He pulled his cloak tightly around his chin, his eyes on Phoebus.

Immediately outside of the doors, Quasimodo paused to look at the square. There were few people in the streets. Most of them hurried about, clutching baskets under their arms and holding their hands within their cloaks. People filed into Notre Dame as he stepped away from the doors. He felt their gazes fall upon him. Rather than return their glances, he looked to the stones at his feet.

Quasimodo reached down, picking between the cobbles. He lifted a piece of hardened lead from between the cracks. He walked a few paces. Rolling the piece of lead between his fingers, he looked up, to the bell-tower. Blunt stubs of gargoyles remained on the side of the cathedral. He turned to see Phoebus had continued to walk toward the Hotel Dieu.

"Phoebus." Phoebus turned, walking toward Quasimodo. "How many died in the fire?"

"No one knows yet. There were a lot of buildings damaged." Phoebus scanned the Parvis, now dotted with the burned frames of houses. He motioned toward the Cathedral door. "Many survivors are staying here, in Notre Dame."

Quasi held the piece of lead in his hand, holding it before Phoebus. "This fire. The one that I caused."

"Quasi, it wasn't your fault." Phoebus turned away. "Come, the Hotel Dieu is this way."

Quasimodo remained still. "I need to know. How many?"

"Quasi, now is not the best time."

"How many died?" His eyes stared into Phoebus'.

"Three soldiers, Quasi." Phoebus looked toward the Cathedral. "Many more would have died if you'd not stepped in. Soldiers and citizens would have killed each other. Esmeralda would have been burned to death. Claude Frollo would have killed you. Clopin and I would likely be dead as well."

Quasimodo's mouth fell open, only a gasp escaping. His eyes scanned the cobbles as he shook his head.

"Quasi, I was at war for twenty years. At first, I looked after horses and drummed. Then, I took a sword into my hand. I've killed people, destroying the enemy as well as innocent families. It was my duty to follow orders, as disagreeable as they were. At night, I remember the smell of their rotting bodies and the screams of those left alive on the battle field. Only after I accepted that my acts were for the greater good, was I able to sleep. There is blood on my hands, Quasi. There is much blood. You did not intend to kill those soldiers, your only thought was to save Esmeralda and protect Notre Dame. In that, you succeeded."

Phoebus moved to take the lead from Quasimodo's hand. Quasimodo closed his fingers over it. "This lead killed three people. Those three people died so that hundreds could live. There is a reason most of Paris believes..."

"I don't believe that."

"Quasi, it's best you not think about it too much. I know it wasn't your intention to harm anyone."

Quasimodo slipped the lead into his pocket. He shook his head in dismay. Words formed in his head, yet didn't leave him. "Four lives were lost, because of me."

Phoebus knocked on the door of the Hotel Dieu, Quasimodo standing at his side.

A nun soon answered the door, her habit framing her youthful face.

"Good afternoon, gentleman." The nun spoke while looking at Phoebus. She lowered her gaze to Quasimodo. It was then that she stepped back from the door, shrieking.

Phoebus placed his boot in the door, holding it open.

"We only wish to speak with the Archdeacon. He is expecting a visit from Quasimodo, the bell-ringer."

The young nun continued to stare at Quasimodo. Her jaw trembled. She lifted her cross to her chest and backed away. Phoebus and Quasimodo exchanged glances as she turned around and disappeared into a room.

Phoebus continued to hold the door open. The hall remained empty. He looked to Quasimodo, who peered at him from under his hood.

"That's not what I was expecting either." Phoebus held the door open. "Should we try?"

Quasimodo had covered his face with his hands. His hood fell over his head, hiding most of him under blue fabric. Phoebus patted Quasimodo on the shoulder. Quasimodo peered at Phoebus between the fingers of his right hand.

"What now?"

"I have an idea." Phoebus let the door close.

Phoebus led Quasimodo toward the Palace of Justice. Quasimodo sighed with relief as they passed the entrance. Phoebus led him into the stables. Inside the stable it was dark and the air heavy with ammonia and dust. Phoebus walked past the empty stalls, toward a large, barred stall at the end. Quasimodo held his cloak to his nose to stifle the disagreeable, yet unfamiliar, odors.

"Look at him." Phoebus stood before a large stall. Within it, a large black stallion circled. The stallion tossed his head, whinnying and pacing. As Phoebus approached the bars, the stallion lunged forward, slamming the door of the stall with his shoulder.

"Why is he kept here?" Quasimodo peered into the stall, keeping his fingers away from the edge.

"None will take him out of the stable or even look at him."

"For what reason?"

"This is 'Snowball,' Claude Frollos horse. In two days, he will be yours."

"I have no need of a horse, Phoebus." Quasimodo noted where the horses hooves had worn into the floor of the stall, leaving a rut. The horse was sweating, its coat dampened. "What will happen to him?"

"For now, we shall turn him out into a pen, to move his legs in something other than a circle. You may watch him while I take care of the stall." Phoebus grabbed a rope from a nearby hook. "In two days, his fate is up to you."

Phoebus looped the rope through Snowballs' halter. The stallion reared, then charged forward as Phoebus opened the door. Quasimodo stood back, watching as the horse pulled Phoebus out of the stable. Snowball galloped about the pen, bucking wildly. Phoebus closed the gate.

"Well then. That was easier than I thought it would be." Phoebus laughed. Quasimodo watched the horse gallop about, tossing sand into the air with his hooves. Phoebus walked back into the stable, pushing a two-wheeled cart and a shovel.

Quasimodo stepped toward the pen. He watched as the stallion rolled in the sand, covering itself. Snowball then stood, shaking the sand from his tangled man and tail. Once covered with dust and sand, Snowball stood in the centre of the pen, calling. Noting the trough was dry, Quasimodo fetched a bucket of water and poured it between the rails, into the trough. Snowball trotted over, then began drinking.

"What am I to do with you?" Quasimodo reached out to touch the stallion, then pulled his hand away. Instead, he focused on the scars that showed as ridges under the damp and soiled coat. Snowball watched him while drinking, his ears flicking with each swallow. Quasimodo continued to fetch water for the stallion.

Quasimodo soon turned the empty bucket over, using it as a stool. The stallion lifted his muzzle from the water, his lips dripping. Reaching between the rails, he sniffed Quasimodo's shoulder. Snowball jumped away as Quasimodo moved his hand toward his muzzle. He galloped and bucked within the pen. After a few moments, Snowball once again approached Quasimodo. Quasimodo offered his palm, the stallion nosed him, moving his upper lip over Quasimodo's hand.

Quasimodo remained still, only turning his hand for Snowball to sniff. Snowball sniffed him, his nostrils wide. He followed each of Quasimodo's small movements with his brown eyes, listening to each movement with his flicking ears. Snowball sniffed Quasimodo's wrist, allowing Quasimodo to stroke his chin. Quasimodo slowly reached up with his other hand and passed it along the stallions neck, feeling old scars beneath the stallions soiled coat.

"I have them, too." Quasimodo whispered Snowballs ear. He allowed his hand to rest on the stallions neck. Snowball continued to sniff at his cloak, nosing him.

"Those who are cruel to animals are often cruel to men, as well." As Phoebus spoke, Snowball quickly backed away, pulling his head from between the rails. Quasimodo turned to see Phoebus with a forkful of hay. He dropped it over the rails. The stallion stood, with flared nostrils.

"Perhaps you will want a horse?" Phoebus watched as Snowball neared the pile of hay, reaching out to it with his lips.

"He has been kept prisoner, hasn't he." Quasimodo leaned on the fence, watching Snowball eat the hay greedily. "What do horses want?"

"Most like to run about in a field."

"That's what he should do, then." Quasimodo stated flatly.

"In two days, you will have the chance to do that. Until then, he's cooped up here." Phoebus stepped from the pen. "I will bring him in after mass."

Quasimodo turned to watch the stallion, then followed Phoebus toward Notre Dame.


	7. Evening Mass

Evening Mass

Brother Laurent sat in his room, sewing at his table. Light filtered toward the tables and shelves from overhead. A single candle flickered on the table, adding a yellow glow to the room. The flame flickered as Quasimodo entered.

"I was wondering when you would come back." The old monk held up the tunic. "This requires a few more details. Wear it to mass this evening and return it tomorrow morning, so that it may be finished."

"Attend mass tonight?" Quasimodo removed his cloak and began to fold it. The look in Quasimodos eye said more. "I don't think that is wise."

"The sooner you begin, the sooner it will become routine." Reluctantly, Quasimodo placed his cloak on the table and lifted the new tunic. The rich purple appeared lighter than it had earlier. "Also, if it does not fit well, I would prefer to make changes before it is finished."

The monk turned while Quasimodo changed his old tunic for the new. Only after he saw movement near his side did he move.

"How does it feel?" Quasimodo jumped slightly as the monk reached for the collar of the tunic. "Does it pinch anywhere?"

He relaxed as he saw brother Laurent was inspecting the seams. He watched the monk fasten the buttons at his wrists.

"I will see you at mass this evening?"

Quasimodo nodded softly.

"Excellent." The monk smiled. "Before you go, it would be best that you leave your cloak and old tunic here on the table. They are in poor repair, much most of your breeches. That cloak lacks sleeves and you will certainly freeze in it."

Quasimodo reluctantly left his folded clothes. Once more, he passed through the choir and toward his tower home. Clopin and the others had left the nave. The inside of the church was nearly empty.

* * *

The bell-tower was warm, carrying the air of incense.

Esmeralda stood at the top of the steps. Her hair was tied above her neck, curls falling out at all angles. Her dress and hair were covered with dust. Esmeralda turned her attention toward the ladder, where Quasimodo's red hair and fingers came into view. She watched as he climbed into his loft.

"The colours of sunrise and sunset." She stepped forward, lightly brushed her fingers over the woolen shirt. "This fits you well and looks quite warm."

"Brother Laurent made it." Quasimodo ran his finger inside of the cuff, where the buttons pulled the fabric close to his wrist. "I've not had long sleeves before now. The red, it's very bright. People will look at this, they will look at me."

"Out with the old." Esmeralda shrugged, her eyes focused into Quasimodo's. "The purple, it complements your eyes nicely. "

"Who would ever look me in the eye?"

"You'll love this." Esmeralda shook her head. She grasped his right hand and pulled him forward.

Quasimodo stood in awe in the centre of his tower. The model city remained, untouched as promised. His stained-glass mobiles twinkled with the currents of air that passed through the tower. The crate of books from the Archdeacon sat where it had been left earlier. On either side, lanterns hung from the beams overhead. Far above, light-coloured canvas had been suspended at an angle, protecting him from the droppings of birds. Under the protective canvas, new shelves had been arranged. Fabric hung behind the shelves, creating false walls and breaking the cold drafts that blew through the tower. In the centre of it all, hot coals glowed in the metal fireplace. To his left, he could see that his bed had been removed. He frowned.

"Your other things are where you left them." Esmeralda motioned toward the old shelves. Quasimodo smiled softly at the sight of the undisturbed shelves. "Phoebus and I figured we'd best leave what wasn't beyond repair or stacked in a heap. There is still much to do in here."

Esmeralda led him down the ladder, under the work table and bells. Quasimodo hesitantly followed her to a corner of the tower. He was led to the room where, a few days ago, he'd placed Esmeralda after rescuing her from the stake. Gone were the stored tools and equipment. Instead, the room was now bright, clean and furnished. Quasimodo stepped near the rug on the floor, a long braid of cloth that ran in an oval. A single colourful tapestry hung from one wall. The arched windows had been polished and cleaned.

Phoebus stood nearby, moving an old desk toward the window.

"This is from the school. Two priests carried it up here, saying you would use it." Phoebus shoved it against the wall. He stepped out of the room. Quasimodo remained still, taking in the changes to the storage room. He looked at the bed, shelf and desk. A proper fireplace, previously hidden under the stored debris, contained glowing coals. A large stack of wood pieces lay nearby. He turned his eyes toward the floor, his eyes closed tightly.

"Why all of this?" He glanced sideways at Esmeralda.

"It's for you." Esmeralda led him to the bed. She lifted the edge of the quilt. "A real mattress with proper sheets and the thickest quilt I could find. You are clearly lacking sleep, this should help."

"This is all too much." Quasimodo touched the quilt, feeling the ridges of the stitching. His shoulders folded in slightly. "It's all very nice. I appreciate it, truly."

"Quasi, you deserve it. Don't try to convince me otherwise." Esmeralda crossed her arms. "I'm not having Phoebus and Jerry carry any of this back out of here, either."

"I'm not ungrateful, Esmeralda." Quasimodo held his hands up, his shoulders pulling closely to his neck. His elbows rested near his sides. "Not at all."

"Phoebus and I are your friends. We care about you and want to ensure your comfort." Esmeralda touched his shoulder, passing her finger over the seam of his new tunic. He nodded slowly, side to side while watching Esmeralda. "The clergy suggested you have a warmer area to rest, one protected from drafts."

Under her touch, Quasimodos shoulders relaxed. His lower eyelids rose sightly. Phoebus walked in, causing Quasimodo to turn. He set a candelabra next to the desk.

"A room fit for a prince, or a bell-ringer." Phoebus patted Quasimodo on the shoulder, his palm thudding. He shrugged, then stood beside Esmeralda, hands resting on his low back. He looked around the little room, admiring the clean walls and relative brightness.

"What do you think, Quasi?"

"This is all so much." His words were soft. He played with the buttons on his shirt.

"All that's missing are your things, and there is plenty of space for it." Phoebus pressed his knuckles into his back as he leaned to the side. His back cracked. "You're due to ring the bells again, no?"

"Soon." Quasimodos eyes looked toward the open door, toward the lowering sun, then to the bright red cuffs of his tunic.

"You know, just like that, when to ring them." Phoebus pressed his knuckles to his forehead. "You just look at the sky and know."

"Mostly, yes. That's my purpose." Quasimodo raised his left hand, motioning toward the door. "Anyone could do it. I will show you."

Quasimodo walked toward the south tower. Phoebus and Esmeralda followed. He stopped at the most southern part of the tower, resting on the parapet, facing the tower wall. A wooden peg poked out of a hole in the wall.

"Your shadow?" Phoebus shrugged. Esmeralda scanned the stone wall.

"A sun?" She passed her finger over the stone ridges.

"A mass dial." Quasimodo ran his finger through the groove cut in the stone. "This is when I ring the Vespers, when the shadow reaches here, or at sunset. These lines are the Terce, Sext and None."

"It's a sundial." Phoebus shook his head.

"Almost." Quasimodo pressed his hand to the carved stone. He looked to Phoebus. "After so many years, I don't need to look at this often. The hours do grow shorter in the winter."

"Every church in Paris rings its bells after Notre Dame, without fail. You are their mass dial." Phoebus shook his head, his fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose. "And when you ring the bells at night?"

"There are sand-glasses in the tower." Quasimodo thought for a moment. "I wake up, wait for the last grain of sand to fall and tend the bells. The clepsydra is not reliable in the winter - it freezes."

"You wake up multiple times throughout the night, every night." Phoebus rested on the parapet next to Quasimodo and Esmeralda. The shadow moved closer to the carved line, a shadow beginning to fall into the groove. Quasimodo reached out once more, his hand almost touching the stone. He turned toward Esmeralda and Phoebus. His hands rested on the parapet, gripping it firmly.

"I've been asked to attend mass this evening." Quasimodo drew a deep breath. As he exhaled, his red hair fell forward, partially hiding his good eye. "Would either of you..." He pushed his hair back, his eyes widening as he looked to the cuff that encircled his left wrist. "I've never attended before."

"Phoebus and I would gladly sit next to you." Esmeralda spoke firmly, then turned to face the city. The sky was rapidly becoming a mix of red and purple.

"Thank-you." Quasimodo nodded.

The three friends watched the shadow as it neared the centre of the groove. Quasimodo stepped away from the parapet. Phoebus and Esmeralda smiled at each other, then him.

"Go on. We shall wait for you here." They watched as Quasimodo disappeared into the north tower. A single bell tolled, followed by a slow song. They waited for several moments, looking over the parapet. People filed into Notre Dame. The bells fell silent.

* * *

"I'm worried about Quasi, Phoebus. He doesn't look well." Esmeralda looked to the north tower entrance. "He barely speaks."

"Give him time." Phoebus massaged Esmeralda's shoulders. He hugged her, resting his chin on her shoulder. "As I said before, Quasi is clever and will figure out what he needs to do."

"It just doesn't feel right to leave him alone up here." Esmeralda squeezed Phoebus' hand. "Something could happen to him."

"Quasi will get through this, he's strong, even though he doesn't look it at the moment. He needs time alone, as well." Phoebus led Esmeralda from the parapet. "For now, we ensure he attends mass. He should be tired enough not to resist."

"Phoebus, that's terrible." Esmeralda swatted at his arm. "He asked us to go with him."

"True. He also does not want to go. We walk him there, he sleeps through mass. When it's over, I drag him back here and toss him into that new bed." Esmeralda glowered at him. "What? You've never slept through mass?"

"The organ would prevent anyone from sleeping." Esmeralda's words trailed off. "Oh. He'll not hear a word of it."

"I've slept through many sermons." Phoebus chuckled. "For Quasi it will be no different than sitting in the tower."

"Phoebus, how can you say that?" Esmeralda shook her head.

"You can't say you haven't noticed." Phoebus shrugged. "The clergy must know it as well."

"Still... we shouldn't disrespect him." Esmeralda paced. "It's not only for him, it's for the rest Paris."

"Esmeralda?"

"They're forcing him out of the tower, and into the public eye."

Quasimodo emerged from the tower, sweat beaded on his forehead. He'd changed his hose for the newer, gray ones. His hair remained disheveled.

Together, they walked down the steps. The pace was steady. On the last few steps, in the last bit of shadow, Quasimodo stood with Esmeralda. Phoebus remained immediately behind them. Quasimodo scanned the nave, at the rows of people that filled the Cathedral. He froze. He attempted to step back, his heels landing on Phoebus' toes. He turned, only to watch Phoebus nod 'no' and remain still. Esmeralda grasped his hand, her bracelets touching his wrist, tugging his arm as she descended the steps. Quasimodo felt his weight shift forward, his balance disturbed. He stepped out of the shadows. Esmeralda led him forward, into the nave and into the evening mass.

The nave was dimly lit, much like the bell-tower. Through the light of candles and sunset, Quasimodo peered at those who walked by him. Some diverted their steps, walking as far away from him as possible. Through the shadows, he could see their unspoken words, the looks of disgust directed toward him. He sighed. He felt his hand being squeezed. He looked to see Esmeralda's hand wrapped tightly around his own.

"I'm right here, Quasi."

He felt himself being led into a row, among the Roma. Clopin nodded at him as he seated himself between Esmeralda and Phoebus. Quasimodo continued to watch as the last few people passed by. Father Vanier stopped as he approached the row, searching among the many faces. Once Quasimodo turned to him, he nodded approvingly and joined the rest of the clergy. Notre Dame was filled with people.

Quasimodo remained still, his eyes focused on the tile before him. He could not see neither the clergy, nor the altar. The choir sang, voices filled the nave. Quasimodo stood as if frozen, his eyes downcast. He stood when Phoebus and Esmeralda stood. He knelt when Phoebus and Esmeralda knelt. He fought to keep his eyelids open. The occasional push on his shoulder kept him awake, returning his focus to his shadow.

As mass ended, people began to stand. Quasimodo faced the floor, peering at the people who walked by. He watched as a finely dressed man pointed at him and sneered. He remained on his knees, those surrounding him stood. Quasimodo looked up. Clopin motioned for him to remain down. He watched the shadows of others pass.

After some moments, Quasimodo stood. Notre Dame was mostly empty. Brother Laurent waited, a few steps away. Clopin and his fellow Roma dispersed into the rows of columns. Quasimodo walked to the stairs with Esmeralda.

Quasimodo leaned on the delicate metal work. He raised his hand, as to bid Esmeralda and Phoebus a good evening. Brother Laurent approached as the couple left the cathedral.

"Your presence was noted, and appreciated. Until tomorrow, Quasimodo."

Brother Laurent walked off. Quasimodo sighed, then began the walk to his tower. He passed the room, choosing instead to climb under the bells. He leaned on a beam, looking out onto Paris. Stars dotted the sky. The Compline sounded, the notes simple and unadorned.

Quasimodo sat near the bin of coals, enjoying the warmth. His eyes remained closed. He imagined the ringing of bells throughout Paris, bells other than his own. Not a sound reached him. Reaching back into his memory, he struggled to imagine the many sounds of Paris. Of course there were other churches throughout the city, he could see their towers. They would certainly have bells, as well. He could not recall their sounds. He frowned, then stared into the coals.

The red glow of the coals was warming, taking the chill from around him. He lit a candle with the flame and limped to his table, where the model city lay undisturbed. He lifted the wool blanket from the stool and wrapped it over his shoulders. Heat fell on his back, casting an unfamiliar yet welcome, warmth over him. He moved the few figures around the square. His own figure remained within the damaged Notre Dame. He lifted it, hovering it above the tabletop. His hand trembled slightly.

Quasimodo looked around the tower. His red and purple tunic appeared black in the dim light, the blanket appeared yellow rather than gray. Overhead, only the mouth of one bell peeked through the darkness. He massaged his forehead, struggling to place his focus elsewhere.

To his left, the crate of books sat within arms reach. Setting the wooden Quasimodo back into the Cathedral, he turned his attention back to the crate. One by one, he lifted out books and scrolls. A large printed book, with leather binding, caught his attention. With care, he set the book on the table and opened its crisp pages. English words lay on the paper pages, a language less familiar to him.

Quasimodo used the burning candle to light another. He smoothed the pages and began to read.

 _"Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote_

 _The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,_

 _And bathed every veyne in swich licour,_

 _Of which vertu engendred is the flour...*"_

Quasimodo continued to read, exchanging the candle stubs as they burned away. Once, he left to sound the bells. As the night grew long, the candle flames flickered and died. Quasimodo lay folded over onto the table, snoring.

* * *

* Prologue to the Canterbury Tales. This book was available in print as of 1477, thus it would have been possible for Quasimodo to have this book in his possession, had he actually existed.


	8. Fire, Fire

Fire, Fire

Atop Notre Dame, among the columns, Quasimodo looked down into the square. In the street below, Esmeralda danced. She swirled her skirts and raised her tambourine. Djalis hooves struck the ground with each strike of her hand against the tight skin of the drum. Quasimodo smiled as he watched her dancing in the sun.

Quasimodo rested his elbows on the parapet, releasing a deep sigh. He watched as Esmeralda gathered her coins and disappeared into the streets. As if a wave, the sky began to turn red. Smoke and ash filled the air, causing Quasimodo to cough. He searched for Esmeralda, yet could not find her through the maze of streets.

Trails of smoke rose from suddenly flaming buildings. People ran for their lives, likely screaming in terror. If they were lucky, they would escape the fire. Quasimodo looked up to see the sky had become black. He stepped back, only to feel long fingers wrapping around his uneven shoulders.

"There is so much fire." Quasimodo stared out into the streets, at the sky. Flames surrounded Notre Dame.

"Never you mind, Quasimodo. We will find her, and capture her."

"What have you done, Master?"

Quasimodo turned to face Claude Frollo, who now stood a few steps away.

"Dear boy, whatever do you mean?" Claude Frollo walked his fingers along the stones, his eyes fixed on Quasimodo. "All of Paris is burning because of you."

"Me?" Quasimodo raised his right eyebrow. "I'm not like you."

"Is that so, Quasimodo?" Claude Frollo stepped before Quasimodo. He pressed his fingers deeply into Quasimodo's shoulders. "I would say that you have been an excellent student."

Molten lead flowed around his feet, he stepped away. Claude Frollo remained still, the lead flowed over his shoes. Fire crept up his robes, enveloping him in flame.

"Just look at what you've done." Claude Frollo sneered. "Using fire as a means, Quasimodo. Or, should I say, Frollo?"

Molten lead poured from the gargoyles mouths, transforming the square into a lake of fire. People ran as liquid flame splashed on the stones, surrounding them. Others became trapped, struggling to escape the flames. Lead continued to flow, causing buildings to candle. The sky brightened to orange. Quasimodo held his gaze to the square, to Paris set aflame.

Quasimodo looked back, his focus returning to the burning robes of Claude Frollo. He watched as the fire consumed his hair and eyes, leaving a fiery skull. Flames swirled around his head, crumbling his hat to ash. Reaching out, his burning left hand passed through Quasimodo's hair. The smoke caused Quasimodo to choke.

"You think you have rid yourself of me." Claude nodded approving, grinning. "I will follow you through this world and the next. Our names will always be written together."

* * *

Quasimodo awoke, shaking. Gently, he closed the book and slid it toward away from him. He leaned forward, allowing his pounding head to rest on the table. Pulling at the blanket, he drew it tight around his shoulders and the back of his neck. Smoke still burned his nostrils with each breath he drew. The blanket pinched his hump, causing him to twitch. Quasimodo scanned the darkness, seeing nothing but a small red glow.

Quasimodo watched the red glow warily. With each movement of his gaze to the spot of red, his head throbbed even more. Carefully, he lowered himself away from the table and to the floor. The air was cool, almost comforting. Slowly, he moved himself toward the box of embers. He lay on the chilled floor, his right arm supporting his head. The air was warmer here, from the coals that smouldered.

On the wooden floor, Quasimodo lay trembling beneath his blanket. The sky remained black, with no sign of sunrise. He clenched his stomach, it ached and burned. Wood sat nearby, ready to rekindle the coals. He could not bring himself to feed the fire. Bringing his left hand to his face, he pressed on the closed lids of his left eye. The throbbing in his head continued as he drew the blanket over his face and eyes.

As the glow of the morning sun began to peek over the distant hills, Quasimodo remained awake. From under his blanket, he willed the sun to lower and delay the Matins. Cautiously, he brought himself to his feet. He slowly limped toward Emmanuel's rope. He struggled to lift his hands above his head. Grasping the rope required effort, he consciously closed each finger. Quasimodo looked up, into the bell, and pulled down. His hands slipped, causing him to stumble.

Quasimodo reached up once more, focusing on the rope, on holding his grip. Emmanuel swayed, yet did not sound. Once again, Quasimodo pulled the rope. The thunder of the bell moved through his chest. He forced himself to hold his grasp on the rope, to send music over the city. The bell lifted him from the floor and into the air.

After two peals, the bell stopped. Those on the streets below looked to the north tower of Notre Dame, confused.

* * *

The throbbing in his head had now increased. Quasimodo felt thin fingers probing his face, chest and wrists. Rather than react, he allowed his body to remain limp. He felt himself being turned, a wave of pain shooting through his spine and chest as he was rolled onto his back. Hands patted his cheeks, then moved near his eyes. He pulled his eyelids closed. Gently, the hands lifted his head and neck. He attempted to pull his head to his chest as cold water dripped over his face and near his left eye.

Quasimodo opened his right eye to find himself on the wooden floor of the tower. His left eye refused to open. Directly above him, Emmanual remained still and out of focus. Surrounding him were three men in robes, their knees resting against him. His attempt to pull away, to roll onto his side was thwarted by the blanket that covered him. He let out a frustrated groan as he argued with his own limbs.

A pair of hands encircled his palm, drawing his attention away from the bell. He scanned the concerned faces of the clergymen. A monk sat on either side of him. Father Lacroix held a damp cloth. Quasimodo's right eye grew wide as the cloth was lowered onto the left side of his face. His right eye followed the motions of the priest.

"It appears that you fell, Quasimodo."

Every dab stung, the smallest amount of pressure causing him to squeeze his eyelids closed. Quasimodo slowly brought his hand to his left eyebrow, feeling the tenderness and swelling.

"When the Matins failed to sound, we assumed something happened." The priest set the cloth into a bucket of water. "That is a frightful bruise over your left eye. Come, you must stand."

Quasimodo felt the hands of the monks and priest on him. Their arms laced around his chest and back, guiding him to his feet. As he stood, he grew light-headed, listing as he attempted to step forward. Only when he allowed the monks to support his weight did his balance return. When his feet reached the ladder, he refused to continue.

"Father, I can't leave the bells." Quasimodo's words were weak, pained.

"For now, they will sing by the hands of our Brothers. They will be waiting for you when you are well again."

Quasimodo opened his mouth slightly, as if to speak. Father Lacroix stared firmly back at him. Weakly nodding, Quasimodo allowed the monks to guide him away from the bells. While descending the tower steps, the monks allowed Quasimodo to lean on the wall for rest. His feet dragged over the stones, leading to the occasional stumble. His head continued to throb, only worsened with each sudden movement or change in lighting.

While nearing the nave, Quasimodo felt the wall tremble. The bells were ringing without him. Quasimodo frowned, lowering his head and facing the floor. The doors of Notre Dame remained closed, with clergy waiting to open them. The hole in the great door had been hastily boarded, allowing a ribbon of snow to dust the floor. The monks and priest swiftly moved him through the nave and into the infirmary. Within moments, Quasimodo found himself looking upward, at a wooden ceiling in a warm room.

Father Lacroix remained with Quasimodo as the monks left to fetch the Infirmarian. Quasimodo moved, pulling himself away from the blankets and straw mattress. He eyed the door, where he'd entered from the Cathedral. The priest gently adjusted the blankets over his shoulders. He guided him to a comfortable position. Within a few moments, Quasimodo's right eye closed. The Infirmarian, Brother Rocher, walked in to find Quasimodo haphazardly propped against the wall. He looked to Father Lacroix.

"Do you know what happened?" The monk studied the bruise, then the strange angles of his patient. He found himself wanting to turn away instead of assessing Quasimodo's health. He lowered the blankets from Quasimodo's shoulders, revealing the brightly coloured tunic.

"It appears that he was thrown by one of the bells. Most of the baskets in the tower were untouched. The birds have eaten more bread that him." Father Lacroix patted Quasimodo's shoulders, causing him to open his eye. Quasimodo watched the movements of the monk, who knelt before him.

"His needs will be addressed here." The monk gently grasped Quasimodo's right hand. "His hands are nearly frozen. Bell-ringer, squeeze my hand."

Brother Rocher felt Quasimodos fingers weakly close around his hand. He looked into Quasimodo's right eye, noting the dark circle that had formed beneath it. The monk scanned the unshaven chin, sunken eye and remarkable paleness of Notre Dames bell-ringer. Quasimodo remained watchful, yet unmoving. His breaths were shallow. The monk stood.

"His soul..." Brother Rochers words trembled, as if he were unsure. "...it mourns."

The monk stepped away, facing the wall. There had been neither funeral, nor period of mourning. Claude Frollo had cast himself out of Gods Kingdom. The thought that someone had truly loved Claude Frollo had never come into discussion. The monk looked over his shoulder to Quasimodo, who remained against the wall. He turned back when he saw Quasimodo's gaze meet his own.

"Father, he is suffering an over-abundance of black bile. His body, deformed as it is, is not the cause of this illness." The monk began to pull dried herbs from his shelves. "An abused dog will pine for its Master."

Father Lacroix raised his eyebrow, watching Brother Rocher closely.

"Quasimodo is simply deaf. His mind is not feeble." He motioned to Quasimodo, who remained still, yet watchful, before leaving the room. "Quite the contrary. Look him in the eye, he will understand you. I shall order hot water and will return shortly."

Brother Rocher spooned lemon balm, blessed thistle and willow bark into a wooden cup, then filled it with boiling water. He swallowed, took a deep breath, then turned to face Quasimodo.

"Do you know what black bile is, Quasimodo." The monk then looked away. He stirred the herbs into the water.

"It is one of the four humors." Quasimodo spoke softly, his words slow and laboured. He rested his cold left hand on his bruise. "Too much causes melancholia."

"Very good. You are cold, dry and lacking blood." The monk offered the steaming tisane to Quasimodo. "Drink this, it will help your bruise and condition."

Quasimodo gently took the cup into his pale, trembling hands. He looked into the cup, noting the bits of plant matter that floated in the hot, green water.

"What of the bells?" Quasimodo looked up from the cup.

"For now, think nothing of them. The humoral balance must be restored. This requires at least two weeks of bland, nutritious food, frequent prayer and warming. You will not be returning to the bell-tower until then."

"No..." Quasimodo's lips moved. He snugged the blanket close to his neck. Steam from the cup rose upward, toward this nose. The monk watched as Quasimodo awkwardly sipped the tisane. He noted the tremors in his arms and how he leaned onto the wall.

"Unless, of course, something weighs heavy on your soul. For that, you must confess." Brother Rocher watched as, for a brief moment, Quasimodo appeared anxious. The monk pulled a small bell from his robe and placed it near him. "I must see to the the others. Brother Laurent will guide you to the bathhouse."

Quasimodo waited, sipping from the cup. The tisane grew cool in his hands. He set the cup on his lap and pulled his hands under the blanket, into his underarms. He lowered his head, in an effort to decrease the throbbing ache within his head. Brother Laurent and Father Lacroix walked in to find him staring into an empty cup. He looked up when the cup was lifted away. The priest held his hand out.

"It's time to leave, Quasimodo."

With considerable effort, Quasimodo pushed himself away from the wall and to his feet. He stepped toward the nave, from where he'd come in. Only when he noticed he was alone did he turn.

"The bath house is this way."

"Oh no." Quasimodo remained still. "There is no need for that."

"You are in no condition to work, Quasimodo. You know that as well as I." Father Lacroix motioned towards the passage to the baths. Quasimodo gazed out the door that would take him through Notre Dame, to his home in the tower. He sighed before limping toward the monk and priest.

Once in the bathhouse, he was directed to a wall of fabric. Warm scented air poured out from behind a thick linen curtain. A bench and a wooden tub lay waiting. Blankets, a few towels, rags and a square cake of soap rested in a neat stack.

"Leave your tunic and hose on the bench. It is customary to leave your braies on."

Quasimodo stepped into the curtained area and picked up the cake of soap. Its smell was strong and flowery.

"Lavender heals." The priest grasped the edge of the curtain. "Ring the bell when you have warmed." The curtain fell, sealing him into a small room of fabric. Light filtered through, casting a yellow glow on the water and linens. He watched the shadows of others moving through the fabric walls.

Quasimodo dipped his fingers into the hot water, noting the coldness of his hands as he did so. He unfastened his tunic and hose, leaving them folded on the bench. He grasped a towel from the pile, soaking it, and draped it over his hump before stepping into the water. The water was deep, nearly reaching his lips. As his hands and fingers warmed, they began to sting. He passed his fingers between his neck and shoulders, looking up at the ceiling. He leaned against the wall of the tub, allowing his body to embrace the warmth that surrounded it. With each breath, the warm air washed over him. With each moment, his head pounded less and his right eye began to focus. His left eye remained swollen closed.

The little bell rested within reach. A bell so small would barely make a sound, yet they would come for him when it rang. He soaked the towel once more, drawing warm water over himself and covering as much of his hump as possible. He grasped the handle of the tiny bell between his fingers, allowing the clapper to move.

Within moments, Brother Laurent tied the drape open, allowing light to pour in. Father Lacroix carried a brass aspersorium and aspergillum. Quaismodo replaced the bell onto the bench and lowered himself in the water as far as he dared. He pulled his arms under the water, as well, causing the water to rise further.

"I see that your colour has improved. How are you feeling Quasimodo?"

"Much better, thank you."

"That is good to hear." Father Lacroix lifted the aspersorium. "This is for your soul."

The priest scattered water droplets from the aspergillum. Quasimodo startled as the cold water landed on his head, back and shoulders. He turned to see both the monk and priest praying. He then lowered his gaze, allowing the drops to fall over him. He crossed himself, then remained still until the drops ceased to fall. He watched as Brother Laurent walked before him.

"Immerse yourself, the water will heal you."

"It tastes of tears, not water." Quasimodo stated, his swollen eyebrow raised.

Brother Laurent looked to Father Lacroix, who stood behind Quasimodo. Father Lacroix gazed down at the wet towel covering Quasimodo's shoulders. He gasped, quickly placing his hand over his lips. The wet fabric did little to hide the linear ridges on Quasimodo's skin. Father Lacroix walked before Quasimodo.

"Bless you." Father Lacroix placed his hand on Quasimodo's shoulder, passing a finger over one of the thicker scars. Quasimodo lowered himself into the water, away from his touch. "Remain in the water until you are clean, until your hands and feet have wrinkled. Ring the bell when you are ready to leave.

Brother Laurent lifted the tunic from the bench and stepped away. The curtain fell closed. Quasimodo watched as the fabric settled, ceasing all movement.

Once more, he sniffed the soap. The smell was strange, yet pleasant. He lowered the soap into the water, noting how it floated. He tapped it with his finger, watching it bob to the surface. He washed his face, being careful to avoid his bruise. Wet hair clung to his eyelids and nose, causing him to pull it away. For a few moments, he held his fingers to his scalp. He then plugged his nose, held his eyes closed and immersed himself completely. He used the towel to wash and rinse his hair.

Having fully washed, Quasimodo stepped out of the water. He stood in his wet braies, while drying the upper part of his body. He released a sigh of relief when finding dry braies folded among the towels. He donned his hose and shoes. Finding no tunic, he wrapped a dark gray blanket around his shoulders. As he stepped from behind the curtain, Brother Laurent turned.

Quasimodo followed the monk back to the room where he'd rested earlier. Brother Rocher had left a bowl of barley porridge, stirred with boiled figs, and a cup of steaming almond milk on the table.

"Remain here. Do not return to the bell-tower." Brother Laurent set the little bell next to the bowl. "For a time, this is the only bell you will be ringing."

Quasimodo looked at the little bell and sighed. He sat on the small bed and scanned the room. Aside from a crucifix on the wall, the room was void of decoration. While thick and warm, the blankets were dark and simple. A trio of fiery logs, held by iron prongs, cast heat into the room. The logs sparked, cracking open as they burned. Small embers landing beyond the edge of the fireplace.

"Brother Laurent."

"Yes, Quasimodo."

"In the bell-tower, there is a printed book. It is English." Quasimodo wrung his hands for a moment. "If I am to remain in this room, may I read?"

"It will be brought to you after the Terce. For now, rest and pray." Brother Laurent scanned Quasimodo's face and shook his head. He set the bowl of porridge in Quasimodo's hands. "This is not a good time to be fasting."

Brother Laurent stepped out. Quasimodo sat on the bed, his feet resting on the stone floor. He watched the flames dance over the logs. The heat was comforting, yet he could not bring himself to approach the fire. Instead, he wrapped another blanket over his shoulders. He kicked away his shoes and lifted his feet onto the bed, drawing them under another blanket. He looked into the bowl, curling his lip slightly at the odor.

Reluctantly, Quasimodo took a bite from the spoon. He set the bowl on the floor and lowered himself onto the bed.


	9. Instability

Instability

Notre Dames doors opened, allowing the faithful inside. A few citizens grumbled as Esmeralda forced her way through the crowd. Once inside, she turned and bolted up the steps to the north bell-tower. Her run was shortened by a priest locking the tower door.

"What? No! You can't lock him in there again!" Esmeralda angrily gestured to the door.

The priest turned, meeting with the glaring eyes of Esmeralda. He stepped back, toward the door. He held the key in his open hand.

"None of us would do such a thing." The priest shook his head. "I trust him. However, some felt it wise to ensure Quasimodo remains away from the bell-tower."

"What do you mean?" Esmeralda's eyelids narrowed. She leaned forward, her arms crossed. "Where is he?"

"Quasimodo's needs are being met." The priest stepped back slightly. "It is pleasing to see that he has friends that care about him." Esmeralda moved to the middle of the passage, blocking the steps.

"I asked where he was. I'm not moving until I know."

The priest stepped forward, Esmeralda pressed her hand to the wall. He stood for a moment, eyeing the Romani woman cautiously.

"Quasimodo is being tended in the infirmary." Esmeralda's eyes grew wide. The priests tone grew firm. "If you must remain in the stairwell, you are free to do so. However, please let me pass."

The priest walked down the steps. Esmeralda sighed, then followed.

"He didn't burn himself, did he?"

"Nothing of the sort." The priest nodded. "Attend mass. Say a prayer for your friend." The priest walked away, leaving Esmeralda standing among the crowd of people.

Esmeralda knelt in an empty area of the nave. Clopin sat next to her, watching as tears welled in her eyes. As the mass began, Esmeralda fiddled with the coins on her shawl.

"Ma Chere, what troubles you?" Clopins words were soft.

"Quasimodo is injured."

"Indeed. I watched a monk and priest haul him through here earlier." Clopin patted Esmeralda's hand, then gestured toward a narrow door. "I heard talk of an accident in the bell-tower this morning, I know nothing more. They took him through there."

The door was boldly painted, yet well-hidden among the columns. Esmeralda watched the door, which remained closed throughout mass. After the music and chanting finished, Esmeralda slipped toward the door. Finding it locked, she turned away from it, frustrated. Clopin approached her.

"It is doubtful that the clergy would harm him." Clopin watched Esmeralda eye the door. "There is no need to worry."

"There is." Esmeralda remained still, her arms crossed over his chest. "He hasn't been himself for the last few days. I saw he was not well and should have done something. This didn't need to happen."

Clopin stepped back, his eyebrow raised. Gently, he rested his hand on Esmeralda's shoulder.

"My sister, you barely know this man." Esmeralda turned away from the locked door. "How could you possibly..."

"I know enough." Esmeralda began to pace, Clopins hand falling away from her. "After causing him so much hurt, he still risked everything for us."

"Esmeralda?"

"You and I put him on the pillory." Esmeralda snapped, a nearby churchgoer immediately hushing her. Esmeralda lowered her voice, her words remaining both firm and fueled. "He was humiliated, because of us."

"Quasimodo chose to join the festival." Clopin shrugged.

"He saw Phoebus and I together." Esmeralda passed her fingers over her forehead and through her hair. She looked to Clopin, her eyes slightly teared. "I broke his heart, Clopin."

Clopin gently grasped Esmeralda's hands, stopping her from pacing further.

"Guilt is a poor advisor."

"He's my friend." Esmeralda narrowed her gaze at the door. "I don't want to see him hurting."

"Quasimodo wanted the change, or he never would have stepped out of Notre Dame." Clopin donned his gloves, carefully aligning each seam to his fingers. "He would have realized change would come with consequences."

Esmeralda returned her gaze to Clopin. He secured the laces on his jacket, then looked her in the eye. Clopin placed a hand on each of Esmeralda's shoulders.

"Many things have changed in recent days. The Court of Miracles is taken, our people displaced. Our tormentor is dead and gone. A Gadjo has asked for your hand." Clopin lightly passed his thumb over Esmeraldas cheek. "Through it all, things are looking up. For all of us. Even Quasimodo."

"Eventually, someone will pass through this door." Esmeralda scanned the nave, in search of a priest or monk. "Until then, I will wait here."

"So be it." Clopin squeezed Esmeralda's hands once more, before letting them go. "If I see your fool Captain, I shall send him to you."

Clopin bore a worried expression for a few moments. He shook his head in dismay, letting out a dramatic sigh. He then vanished among the columns.

Esmeralda slowly walked throughout the nave, her gaze rarely leaving the door. The gentle scuff of sandals drew her attention to a priest exiting the bell-tower. The priest carried a book in his hands, a green strip of fabric protruding from the closed pages. Esmeralda immediately approached him.

"Pardon me, Father." Esmeralda drew her eyes away from the book and to the priest. "As you were in the bell-tower, would you know where to find Quasimodo?"

"I assume you are 'Esmeralda.'" Father Lacroix smiled at her. "Quasimodo is resting."

"Take me to him, please."

"For now, it is best Quasimodo remain alone." The priest held the book to his chest and stepped forward, passing Esmeralda. She remained still, her hands clasped together.

"Father, hasn't he been alone long enough?" Esmeralda's words caused Father Lacroix to stop. He paused for a moment, before turning to look into Esmeralda's eyes. "Please, let me see him."

"None shall disturb him while he sleeps." He looked to the book, to the strange words on the cover. "Should he be awake when I leave this, I shall send someone to collect you."

Esmeralda nodded. She watched as the priest unlocked the door and stepped through. The door latch clicked as it locked.

* * *

Quasimodo sat on the bed, studying the cracks in the floor and the many colours of threads in his blanket. A novice approached the little cell, bearing a tray of cups and bowls. The light bounced from the polished cup, causing Quasimodo to look toward him. Instantly, the young man shifted his gaze to the floor. Quasimodo watched Brother Rocher push him forward. Once the novice was in the room, Brother Rocher was gone.

"Monsieur Frollo. If you don't mind..." The novice looked to the door, then back to his patient. "Brother Rocher has asked for this to be used on..."

"I'm not 'Frollo'." Quasimodo's words were faint, going unheard.

The young man stuttered, causing Quasimodo to watch him intently. The young man looked away. The novice was clearly younger than himself. His face had yet to bear stubble, his head without tonsure. His robes were large, hanging loosely from his willowy frame. In his hands, he bore a shallow wooden bowl of ointment.

"Do I appear fearsome to you?" Quasimodo weakly inquired.

The novice looked to Quasimodo, who sat enveloped in layers of blankets. Only his head and hands could be seen. He scanned Quasimodo's awkward frame, his uncombed hair, then his single open eye.

"No. You're not." The novice pulled a small stool from the other side of the room. He seated himself immediately before Quasimodo, the bowl resting on his lap. "I'm sorry, Monsieur Frollo."

Quasimodo cringed slightly. The novice rested his fingertips on the edge of the bowl.

"I'm here to help. This will help you rest." The novice passed a cup of tisane to Quasimodo. He then dipped his fingers in the bowl, lifting out some of the ointment. "Hyssop will help heal that bruise."

Resisting the urge to back away, Quasimodo remained rigid. The novice moved slowly, almost hesitantly, toward Quasimodo's face. Unwillingly, Quasimodo startled as the cool ointment touched his swollen brow. As the novice treated his bruise, he relaxed. Rather than showing fear, the young man focused on his task. Every fold of skin was coated with the healing paste. Only after the bruise was evenly covered did he look back to Quasimodo's bewildered expression. The novice stood.

"I have been asked to answer your bell, should you need anything, until sunset." He replaced the stool, then turned back to face Quasimodo, who still held the cup. "Brother Rocher has asked that you sleep as much as possible."

The novice walked away with the empty bowl. Alone, Quasimodo looked to the window, high on the wall, where a sliver of clear sky could be seen. Having drank the foul-smelling tea, he attempted to lay on the mattress. Finding it uncomfortable, he leaned onto the wall instead. He proceeded to study the relatively low ceiling of the room. He counted the boards, then the shadows of those who passed by. He pressed onto his left eyelids, willing them to open, covering his finger in ointment. Eventually, boredom overtook him and he slept.

* * *

Quasimodo awoke from a dreamless sleep, unsure of the time. The sky was now clouded and grey, hiding shadows from view. Within his stomach, fire burned. He lay on his side, a cushion having been stuffed between his back and the wall. A fresh log blazed. Quasimodo eyed the flames, watching as they devoured the log. Gone were the empty dishes, in their place sat another bowl of porridge, a wedge of cheese and cup of ale. Immediately next to the bowl, sat the the book he'd been reading earlier.

Scanning the doorway for shadows, and finding none, Quasimodo pushed himself from the mattress. His arms shook, protesting his efforts to move them. The blankets fell away as he moved on the bed. As he sat upright, his vision blurred. Leaning forward, he rested his head on the palm of his right hand. Even light pressure on his forehead stung. Gently, he felt the spongy bruise. His eyelids remained swollen closed. Bits of plant matter fell away from his skin.

After a few moments, Quasimodo stretched his arms to his right, toward the book. He forced his fingers to grip the leather binding. After a few attempts, the book slid from the table and onto the blankets. Once within reach of both hands, he eagerly pulled the book onto his lap.

Before opening the pages, he looked to his weakened hand, then to the cheese. He sighed, then reached out, grasping wooden plate. The cheese was soft, with a slightly brown crust and soft, nearly fluid, centre. Cautiously, he sniffed it, then poked it with his finger. Not entirely sure how to proceed, he tore a bit off and ate it. He drew a few sips of ale, before returning his attention to the book.

After rolling the edge of a thick blanket, Quasimodo set it behind his head. The blanket fell neatly over his shoulders, hugging his short neck. He folded the blankets edge over his chest. Once again buried in a mound of fabric, Quasimodo opened the book. He resumed his place at the 'Reeves' Tale,' setting the strip of cloth aside. He continued to read through the 'Man of Laws Tale.'

Quasimodo looked up when the novice entered, motioning to him that it was time for prayers. Through the walls, the faint vibration of bells could be felt. Obediently, he set his book aside. Afterward, he looked to see that the novice remained in the room. The novices lips moved softly. Quasimodo squinted with his one open eye, unable to see his words. When a worn wooden spoon was placed near his hand, Quasimodo nodded. He looked to the table, noting another cup of the foul-smelling tea. Once the novice left, he set the spoon aside and resumed reading.

Esmeralda stood impatiently beside Father Lacroix, who directed her into the small room. Inside, Quasimodo sat quietly on the bed, appearing as a mountain of grey. Esmeralda stepped forward, seating herself on the floor between Quasimodo and the fire.

As Esmeralda's shadow crossed the firelight, Quasimodo briefly looked to her, then turned away. Esmeralda gasped at the sight of Quasimodo's left eye. She placed her hand on his arm.

"Quasi, look at me. Please." Quasimodo peered at Esmeralda. He drew the blanket snugly around his neck, fully covering his chest. "What happened to your eye? What is happening to you? "

"The monks say that I am to stay here, out of the bell-tower." Quasimodo remained still, studying the movements of Esmeralda's lips and the intensity of her stare. "You would think me mad."

"Quasimodo, you've done so much for me, for my people and for Paris." Esmeralda pouted as Quasimodo turned away. "Tell me how to help you."

"I don't belong down here. This place... it's not..." His words trailed off.

"It's unfamiliar, that is all. Maybe it's for the best, Quasi. Once your strength has returned, everything will be normal again." Esmeralda picked up the cup of tea, and placed it back on the table. She passed him the bowl of porridge. "There is a life for you outside the bell-towers."

"What is 'normal,' Esmeralda?" Quasimodo accepted the bowl. "Is it normal to live alone in darkness? Is it normal to have never set foot into the streets? Is it normal to know nothing of the tastes and smells that seem so common to everyone around you?" His voice remained low, pained. An air of confusion hung over each word. Quasimodo skimmed the spoon over the porridge, lifting a thick amber mass from atop the barley and oats. "What is this?"

"It's honey." Esmeralda watched Quasimodo. Her concerned expression faded to one of shock, then sadness. "What has happened to you? What did he do?"

Quasimodo watched Esmeralda as her expressions changed, as she searched for words. Sadness filled his expression, his lips tensing as he watched her. "What is a normal life?"

"At this moment, I'm no longer sure I could tell you." Esmeralda sighed, then looked into Quasimodos right eye. "Whatever it is, you have a better chance of having that now. Perhaps a priest could offer some words?"

"I would rather see the Archdeacon." Quasimodo shrugged, tilting the bowl in his hands. "Phoebus must have explained what happened yesterday."

"He did." Esmeralda lightly placed her fingertips on his hand. "Were a priest to join us, you would certainly be allowed in."

"I'd only frighten the nuns again." Quasimodo motioned to the purple and red bruise that adorned the left side of his face.

"Quasi, what happened? " Esmeralda pleaded.

"I.." Quasimodo's lips remained parted, his gaze drifting beyond the walls. He turned away, closing his eyes. Memories of the Feast of Fools, pouring lead, Esmeralda tied to the stake and Claude Frollo falling from his grasp filled his mind. He could feel Esmeralda squeezing his hand. He looked to her, his focus now placed on her worried expression. "I... I was imprudent."

Quasimodo watched as Esmeraldas lips moved in the motion of the word. Her gaze shifted for a few breaths. She smiled at him, squeezing his hand once more.

"Phoebus and I will ensure you meet with the Archdeacon as quickly as possible."

"Brother Rocher is unlikely to permit that."

"Phoebus will be able to convince him otherwise." The corners of Esmeralda's mouth upturned slightly. She set her hand firmly on his shoulder. "The sooner the bells sound by your hand, the better it will be for everyone."

Esmeralda and Quasimodo turned as a Brother Rocher appeared at the entrance. He sighed heavily with crossed arms and an icy stare secured on Esmeralda.

"I believe I've worn out my welcome." Esmeralda stood. Quasimodo watched as she nudged the bowl closer to him. "Please, eat something. You'll not regain your strength while fasting."

Quasimodo watched as Esmeralda left the little room. Brother Rocher shook his head. He watched as the monks lips moved, into what resembled words only his Master had used. Quasimodo's mouth fell open slightly, ready to speak. He looked to the wall, away from the monk. What had Brother Rocher truly said? There was no way for him to be certain. When he look back to the entrance, there was no one there.

* * *

Hours passed in the walls of the small room. Quasimodo continued to read, between glances to the clouded sky and flickering log. He remained still as the novice washed his bruise and applying more ointment. On trembling legs, Quasimodo was led through the hallways. The novice showed him the chapel, refectory and necessarium. While walking, he kept a hand on the stone walls, using his other hand to hold the blanket closed over his chest. Upon returning, he found more foul-smelling tea waiting on the table. He returned to the bed, and the book. Each shadow that passed the room lifted his attention toward the passage.

As the sky began to dim, Quasimodo ceased watching for Esmeralda and Phoebus. He blushed while reading the 'Wife of Baths Tale,' then closed the book. Moments later, the vibration of Vespers could be felt through the wall. He leaned against the wall, his eye focused on the red and purple sky, with the closed book on his lap.

By candlelight, Brother Rocher stepped in. He watched every movement of the monk as he felt his hands, washed his bruise in cold water and looked into his eye. Another bitter tisane was offered. Arnica paste was spread on his bruise. He watched as the book was lifted from the bed, being placed on the other side of the room. Brother Rocher instructed him to pray, placed another log on the fire and walked away.

A red glow from the fire illuminated the cell, enriching the pink light that passed through the high window. Quasimodo watched the fire, whilst trying to redirect his attention from his surroundings. His right eye began to ache, nearly as much as his left. He lay on his side, attempting to open his left eye. Only a thin line of red could be seen. A shadow appeared, followed by complete darkness.

* * *

Quasimodo awake before sunrise, confused. Through the dim morning light, he searched for the bells. The air was calm, warm and unfamiliar. Lavender and wood smoke scented the air. Rather than stone, he was surrounded by wooden walls. Neither draft nor frost blew over him. The cell remain unchanged from the night before. The fire had burned to coals.

Moving to the foot of the bed, Quasimodo used the wall to guide himself to his feet. There were no ropes, no bells. He brushed his right thumb over his left eyelids, only to feel them more swollen than the day before. He peeked out of the room. Noting an empty passage, he drew the blanket snugly over his shoulders and stepped out of the cell. He kept his hand on the wall, feeling the cold stones.

He stopped when he arrived at a low window of clear glass. From the window the garden and river were visible. The window faced south, the glow of sunrise partially hidden from view. A light dusting of frost and snow coated the otherwise naked shrubs. Birds flitted between the twigs, causing the snow to sparkle toward the earth. He looked to the grass and dormant garden, then his bare feet. He was at ground level. Placing his hands on the sill, he rested his head against them. He stared into the little garden, only moving his hand to clear his breath from the glass. Only when a figure appeared next to him, did he look away.

"You should not have left your cell, Quasimodo." Brother Rocher stood next to him, looking him in the eye.

"I'm sorry, Brother Rocher." Quasimodo felt himself beginning to pull his arms in to his chest. A chill crept up his spine, causing his shoulders to roll back. He looked to the monk. "My legs were stiff, I thought it best to stretch them."

"Very well." Brother Rocher sighed. "Stretch your legs and return to your cell for prayers. Dion is waiting for you."

Brother Rocher stepped away. Quasimodo brought his fingers to his left eye, lightly pressing on his skin. It remained sore. Through the swelling, his left eye has opened, if only some. He closed his right eye and looked to the garden, seeing only a blur. He returned to his cell.

The day passed slowly. Between prayers, Quasimodo continued to read. Through his feet and the wall he could feel the bells tolling. He watched as the sun lifted itself into the sky. The young novice, Dion, brought meals, treated his bruise and tended the fire. He continued to address him as 'Monsieur Frollo,' with each visit. As shadows of monks continued to pass by, Quasimodo became less interested. Only Brother Rocher and Dion visited his cell.

While reading "Chaucers retraction" Brother Rocher entered the room. Quasimodo placed the book on the table. As before, his bruise was washed and tended. Another cup of foul-smelling bitter tea was left in his hands. The sun dipped toward the horizon, turning the sky a fiery orange.

Well after sunset, Quasimodo stepped out of the cell. He limped through the passages of the infirmary once more, using the wall as his guide. Noting movement in the chapel, he returned to the cell. By the light of the coals, he piled the blankets onto himself and slept.

* * *

Before the morning light graced Paris, Quasimodo lay awake. For the second night, he'd slept without dreaming. His head remained sore, yet the swelling over his eye has decreased. Much to his comfort, he could see from it as before. Once light began to fill the room, he sat upright. Lifting the cup, he studied the dried leaves and bits of root, then inhaled the unusual, foul smell. It was unfamiliar.

Sudden movement drew Quasimodo's attention away from the cup. Phoebus and Esmeralda stood at the entrance. Quasimodo inhaled sharply as Esmeralda rushed forward, throwing her arms around his blanketed shoulders, hugging him. He allowed himself to relax as she squeezed him gently, then stepped away.

"Esmeralda wasn't joking. Your eye is as red as an apple." Phoebus eyed Quasimodo's bruise. Esmeralda elbowed him. "We would have come sooner, yet the monks would let no one in."

"It's good to see both of you." Quasimodo smiled sadly.

"How are you feeling? " Esmeralda took the cup from him, inspecting the contents and scraping out a piece of dried root with her finger. "There is enough Valerian in this to put a goat to sleep." Esmeralda mumbled to herself. She set the cup on the floor. "Are you able to walk far?"

Quasimodo raised his eyebrow. He looked to the entrance, to see Father Lacroix approach. Behind him, Brother Laurent held the purple and red tunic, as well as his shoes.

"We know you've been asked to stay here." Phoebus looked to the priest, then back to Quasimodo. "Yet a short outing is needed."

Quasimodo swallowed as he looked to his feet. He spread his toes out, feeling the warm floor. He turned as the tunic and shoes were placed at arms reach.

"Archdeacon Chevrier continues to ask for you." Father Lacroix spoke gently. "I shall speak with Brother Rocher if he holds issue."

Quasimodo placed his hand on the tunic and nodded. Father Lacroix stepped out with the others. After a few moments, Quasimodo limped out of the room, his hand pressed against the wall. Esmeralda stepped forward, fastening the buttons at his wrists and adjusted the collar, laying it flat.

"Are you certain this is a good idea?" Quasimodo asked, scanning the dimly lit faces of those around him.

"It's a cold Saturday morning and most of Paris is asleep." Phoebus looked to Quasimodo. "There is no better time."

Phoebus removed his cloak, lowering it over Quasimodo's shoulders. The fabric fell to the floor. Quasimodo reached up, lowering the hood and pulling the fabric snug to his chin.

Phoebus held out his elbow, which Quasimodo lightly grasped. Brother Laurent and Father Lacroix walked forward, with Quasimodo behind. On his left, Phoebus supported his weight. On his right, Esmeralda squeezed his shaking hand. They stepped out of the infirmary and into the cold, winter air.


	10. Forgiveness

Forgiveness

They passed through the choir, and out of Notre Dame through the north portal. Cold air blasted into the hall as the door was opened. Quasimodo pulled Phoebus' cloak tight to his shoulders. They walked through the gardens, only twilight to guide them. Father Lacroix led the group, with Brother Laurent falling behind, closing doors and gates. He watched as Quasimodo's limp worsened on the frosted ground.

Father Lacroix unlocked the door into the Hotel Dieu. He stepped inside, peering through the narrow passages. He waved to his companions, who quickly filed through the door. The air remained cool, yet still. Father Lacroix secured the lock and looked to Quasimodo, who melted away from Phoebus' shoulder.

Phoebus struggled to hold onto Quasimodo's arm. He lowered his own shoulder, lifting his friend.

"Phoebus, he's sliding." Esmeralda grasped Quasimodo's arm as he leaned back from them, to the wall.

Esmeralda knelt, gently touching Quasimodo's cheek. He smiled lightly.

"A few moments, if you don't mind." Esmeralda squeezed his hand. "I'm suddenly rather tired."

"It's the Valerian, Quasi." Quasimodo raised his right eyebrow, shaking his head slightly. His hair flopped forward, covering his eyes. Esmeralda scanned his face for a surprised expression. None emerged. "Valerian makes people sleepy."

"What?" Quasimodo's eyelids rose, narrowing his gaze. "Why would Brother Rocher do such a thing?"

Hesitantly, Esmeralda guided Quasimodo's hair away from his face, carefully avoiding his bruised skin. Briefly, he turned away. Then, his focus returned to Esmeralda's eyes. Esmeralda offered a sad smile.

"I'm not sure."

Father Lacroix continued to walk through the passages.

"What brings you here so early?"

"Sister Louise, I have brought Quasimodo to meet with Archdeacon Chevrier. Need I remind you that it is upon the Archdeacons request." Sister Louise crossed her arms.

"I'm not keeping him out." The aged nun flapped her habit. "Sending him over is not fair to the novices. They are not prepared for him. He's unnatural and looks like a devil."

"They scare him away." Father Lacroix argued. "Is it true that some of the young ladies screamed at him? The Captain told me that they ran away from him, as well. Sister, you know as well as I that he is not a devil. A devil could not pass through Notre Dame, let alone live there."

"A devil could, and you know it. Claude Frollo would look after his bell-ringer daily, he even attended services. That man certainly was a devil."

"Claude Frollo was a different sort, Sister." Father Lacroix looked to the nun. "Quasimodo is just a man. He is a good man, one that would not harm anyone. In your heart, you know it as well as I."

"I do believe you, Father." The nun fumbled her rosary. "His face, though. I can't look at him without feeling unease. He shouldn't be." Father Lacroix frowned. Sister Louise met his gaze, then turned away suddenly. "I'm sorry."

"Then, please clear away anyone that could be bothered by the sight of him. I will do my best to have Quasimodo pass through quickly."

"Very well. You know where the Archdeacon stays." Sister Louise disappeared through the halls.

Father Lacroix walked back through the passages. Brother Laurent stood near the main hall. He turned to find Esmeralda and Phoebus sitting on either side of Quasimodo, who dozed.

"Come, it's time to go." Father Lacroix lightly grasped Quasimodo's hands, waking him.

Esmeralda and Phoebus stood, guiding their friend to his feet. Phoebus caught Quasimodos arm as his knees trembled. After a few paces, each step became more certain. Phoebus released his arm, yet remained close to his side. Esmeralda kept her hand on his wrist. After a few turns, Quasimodo was guided through another door. Brother Laurent remained outside with Phoebus and Esmeralda.

"What shall we do now?"

"Father Lacroix and I will wait here. Returning him to Notre Dame should be less trouble." Brother Laurent drew a key from his pocket, placing it in Esmeraldas palm. "This is for the bell tower. It will go to Quasimodo once he has recovered. Ultimately, only he should carry it. Make the tower more welcoming for him, more like a home. After meeting with the Archdeacon, he may recover more quickly than expected."

Esmeralda closed her palm around the key. She squeezed it firmly and nodded.

"Go through that door" Brother Laurent motioned to the end of the opposite hall. "It opens into the square."

Her and Phoebus stepped away, leaving the monk alone.

* * *

Notre Dame remained mostly empty, the sun having yet to rise. They climbed the steps, entering the now familiar passages without speaking to another soul. At this hour Notre Dame was completely silent, almost lonely.

Esmeralda unlocked the door to the bell tower. Having swung the door inward, she felt the inside of the door. A keyhole in a metal plate, and nothing more, donned the inside. Phoebus sighed, a low rumble escaping him.

The couple stood in the darkened landing, looking up into the spiral staircase. A single lancet window cast a pale beam of light onto the cold steps. They exchanged glances before inserting the key and closing the door. The click of the lock echoed through the stairs. Esmeralda unlocked the door, then withdrew the key. She passed her fingers over the interior of the door.

"It's inhuman."

"It's not now, and will never be again. Come, my dear. The clergy will fix the door for him later."

They continued to climb. Once in the little room, they examined the empty shelves and undisturbed blankets. Phoebus stepped toward the curved wall surrounding the window. He adjusted the desk against the wall, where the light would fall best upon it.

"A few quills, some ink and something for him to write on, perhaps. Books on the shelves..."

"Is that really wise?" Esmeralda looked at the empty shelf. "Quasi may not want to read in here at all. It would be best to clear away the dust and trash from under the bells."

Phoebus and Esmeralda walked out of the room and into the loft, climbing the ladder. Within moments, Phoebus began to fill a sack with broken pottery. Esmeralda walked through the loft, noting how smooth some areas of the floor had become. Years of footsteps had worn the roughly cut boards as smooth as marble.

Esmeralda picked up a broom and began to sweep cobwebs. The clattering of broken pottery and gentle whoosh of the broom were the only sounds in the tower. Esmeralda looked at the beams as she swept. Under the years of dust, etched into the wood, lay carvings. Birds, snowflakes, insects and anything else that could be seen from the tower. She set the broom down, her fingers following the lines of a winged unicorn carved into a beam. Scanning the tower, her eyes noted the many small works of art throughout the tower. Mobiles, wind-chimes and carvings filled each space. Some were simple, almost childlike, and clearly old. Others, like the unicorn under her fingers, were more recent.

"What did you find?" Phoebus dropped a bottle, its bottom missing, into the sack.

"He was alone. Truly alone, for the entire time." Esmeralda felt a chill pass through her body. "With only _him_ for company."

Phoebus leaned the bag of broken pottery against a beam before walking to Esmeralda. Gently, he rested his hands on her shoulders. He studied the carving, then followed Esmeralda's gaze about the room.

"This was a prison, Phoebus."

* * *

Father Lacroix held the door open, motioning for Quasimodo to step through. Quasimodo placed his hand on the wall, for balance, and entered the chilled room.

"Quasimodo, bell-ringer. I was praying that I would see you." Archdeacon Chevrier smiled as Quasimodo's outline appeared at the door. His expression grew to a concerned frown as Quasimodo neared his bed. "Come, sit by my side. Tell me of Notre Dame."

Quasimodo walked toward a simple chair, his eyelids growing heavy and fighting to close. The air remained cool, thick with the scent of aired linen and wood smoke. He snugged Phoebus' cloak around his shoulders. White horsehair tickled his nose. He stood before Archdeacon Chevrier, who lay among a mound of cushions and blankets. The Archdeacon motioned toward the chair.

"Your arm. It is bandaged." Quasimodo scanned the Archdeacon, noting that one of his legs lay atop a stack of pillows, splinted with wood. His naked foot poked out from the blankets, its colour an unnatural shade of blue and yellow. "Your leg, as well."

"These will heal in time, Quasimodo. What of you? Is this why the bells sound foreign? " Quasimodo momentarily lowered his gaze to his hands, turning the bruised part of his face away from the Archdeacon. "Never mind, then. It is good to see that others are caring for you. I assume you received the books that were sent to the bell-tower?"

"Oh, yes." Quasimodo startled. "I like them very much. The Canterbury tales were wonderful. Never before have I read anything so unusual."

The Archdeacon laughed. "That is good to hear. My collection is broad and should be appreciated."

Quasimodo studied the Archdeacon as he adjusted his leg on the pillow.

"I've a niece and nephew that I've not seen in a long time, I may visit them." The Archdeacon smiled. "I've written to the Bishop, who has responded swiftly. A new Archdeacon will arrive shortly."

"What do you mean?" Quasimodo raised his eyebrow.

"Once I have healed, I am leaving Notre Dame." Archdeacon Chevrier motioned to his broken right leg. "This may not heal well. What will you do, Quasimodo? I trust that you received the letter from Bishop Cheron?" Quasimodo looked about the room, then to his own hands.

"I will ring the bells, as always." Quasimodo shrugged weakly.

"You are not ringing them now, nor are you working in the nave." Archdeacon Chevrier watched Quasimodo intently. "You're clearly injured, and it happened early Thursday morning. What happened, Quasimodo?"

"It was an accident." Quasimodo did not allow sound to pass his lips.

"It is not like you to be careless, especially with the bells. From the moment you first sounded the bells, you were careful. Something is devouring you from within."

Quasimodo parted his lips, as if to speak. He closed his eyes and turned away, toward the closed door. The door remained closed. He looked to his hands, then to the broken Archdeacon. Firmly placing the knuckles of his right hand to his forehead. He remained still for a time, each breath stifled. Archdeacon Chevrier remained still, intently watching the bell-ringer.

"This should not have happened." Quasimodo suddenly passed his fingers through his hair, his eyes wide. "None of this should have happened." His gaze fixed onto the Archdeacon.

"Quasimodo. What has you so certain of that?"

"It's all my fault." Quasimodo looked to Archdeacon Chevrier.

"Why would you accept fault for the actions of others? For the actions of the almighty?" Archdeacon Chevrier motioned to his injuries with his healthy arm."Claude Frollo did this, in his rage."

"Had I not attended the festival, had I not disobeyed Master, none of this would have happened." Quasimodo looked to his hands, to the Archdeacons bandaged leg. "My own envy of others, my disobedience, led to all of this. Were it not for my recklessness, you would not be in splints. Master would still be alive."

"Claude Frollo was a kettle under pressure. He's been that way for decades. This would have happened regardless of your actions." The Archdeacon nodded toward his splints. "You must confess to the Lord. Ask forgiveness."

"Why would God forgive me?" Quasimodo's eyelids began to swell. "I can't forgive myself. I willingly disobeyed him." Quasimodo knelt forward, his forehead resting on his palms. "Given the chance, I would do it again."

Quasimodo clenched his eyes closed, once again pressing the knuckles to his forehead. He sighed deeply. The Archdeacon reached out, resting his hand onto Quasimodo's wrist. He waited for Quasimodo's eyes to open, to turn to him.

"My son." The Archdeacon offered his hand. Quasimodo pulled away.

"I could not stay in the bell-tower any longer. The desire to leave, to step outside was overwhelming." Quasimodo lifted his hands, gesturing with his fingers outstretched, his words paused. "The temptation was there, and I was too weak to resist."

"Quasimodo?"

"Within a day, I found myself lying. I couldn't obey him any longer, not after seeing what he was doing to others. Still, without regret. When given a choice to allow God to have his will, or to interfere, I did the unthinkable."

Quasimodo bowed his head, redirecting his gaze to the floor. The Archdeacon watched him breathe, waiting for him to look up.

"Master killed people with fire. He burned Paris, he burned Esmeralda. Her feet...have you seen them? They are still in bandages." Quasimodo looked at his palm. "I saw what he was doing and knew it was wrong. Then, I did the same as him. I used fire. The lead for the pipes, for the repairs was there. I poured it out, spilling it onto the street. Three soldiers died."

Quasimodo lifted the misshapen piece of lead from his pocket and placed it into Archdeacon Chevrier's palm.

"I killed him and three soldiers, with my own hands. People already think me a monster. Were they to know I'm a murderer as well."

The Archdeacon frowned, observing Quasimodo slumped in the chair before him. His posture lacked strength, as if every part of him had been drained.

"What would happened had you not broken those chains, Quasimodo? Your friend Esmeralda was going to burn. Hundreds of innocent Roma were in cages, awaiting the same fate."

Again, Quasimodo's eyes grew wide. He closed his eyes, breathing in silence for a few moments.

"No." His lips moved, his head slowly moving from side to side. Focusing on his callused hands, he grasped at the air, watcing his fingers close toward his palms. His eyes only lifted after he felt the Archdeacons hand move.

"Hundreds would have perished." The Archdeacon looked into Quasimodo's right eye. "Claude Frollo was never remorseful for his most cruel actions. God himself helped you break those chains, the same chains Claude Frollo had placed on you."

"The columns are broken, Archdeacon Chevrier."

"They will be repaired in time, as will the chimeras and gargoyles. Think nothing of lifeless stone. God acted through you, Quasimodo. Horses could not break chains such as those. A few broken sculptures saved many lives." He leaned forward, drawing Quasimodo's attention to him. "From what I've heard, you tried to pull Claude Frollo to safety."

"I tried, and I failed." Quasimodo sighed. "I loved him. Then, I killed him. Now, I am to bear his name for the rest of my life?"

"Quasimodo, what has your life been since the 11th of January."

"I don't understand." He looked to the Archdeacon, who remained still. "Nothing is as it was."

"What have you been doing, how have others been to you? Don't tell me. Think about it for a few moments. There is ointment in your eyebrow. Your tunic is new, and fits you well. The cloak on your shoulders is not yours, yet that of a soldier. Four people made considerable effort to bring you here, to this room. Their opinion of you has not changed due to a name."

"If they knew what I'd done, they would think differently."

"What makes you say that?" A worried expression crossed his face. He watched as Quasimodos gaze darted away for a moment.

"Quasimodo, have you asked for forgiveness?"

"What use is confession without contrition?" Quasimodo looked to the Archdeacon.

Archdeacon Chevrier turned to the window, unable to look at Quasimodo's pained expression. He watched as daylight fell upon the city, a fine dusting of frost twinkling away from the window. He closed his eyes before turning back to Quasimodo. Firmly placing his good arm on Quasimodo's shoulder, he looked directly into his eyes.

"No one is born to live their life alone. Those who do so make the choice consciously, when they have reached the age of reason. You were not given that choice."

Quasimodo opened his mouth, his finger raising slightly. The Archdeacon drew his hand between them, lightly grasping Quasimodo's massive hand and pressing it downward.

"Remember the education Claude Frollo bestowed upon you. Hold dear the gifts of reading and knowledge. Forgive him the rest, as judgement is the duty of God alone. Regarding your own sins, ask God to forgive you. Although, your eyes say more than you have. You have already asked God to forgive you, many times."

Quasimodo's eyes remained fixed on the Archdeacon. His brow furrowed, his breathing becoming sharper. Worry crept across his bruised face.

"Quasimodo, go to the Altar. " The Archdeacon once again lifted his hand toward Quasimodo, pausing his speech. "Go to the altar, at any time of day or night. Explain to God what you did, and why. He will forgive you."

"No man who has any defect may come near: no man who is blind or lame, disfigured or..." Quasimodo's lips hurriedly motioned the words, his attention drifting from the Archdeacon. His focus drifted to the floor, away from the old man that lay before him. His skin began to pale as he trembled. The Archdeacon grasped the arm of the chair, startling Quasimodo.

"Quasimodo. Look at me. Go to the altar in Notre Dame. Confess. Pray." Quasimodo swallowed nervously, his expression one of shock. "That is your penance. When you have done so, I absolve you."

"I will." Quasimodo nodded nervously.

A knock at the door caused Archdeacon Chevrier to shift on his bed.

"You must return to the infirmary. Brother Rocher will be fuming when he finds you missing." Quasimodo turned to see Father Lacroix, who offered his hand.

* * *

Wordlessly, Brother Laurent and Father Lacroix guided Quasimodo back through the Hotel Dieu. Within moments, Quasimodo was shuttled through the gardens of Notre Dame and behind the choir. The nave was filling, a few Parisians catching a glance of Quasimodo as he moved toward the infirmary.

Once alone, Quasimodo looked about the room. A few coals cracked in the fireplace. The cell had been tidied, the blanket smoothed. A small meal of ale and porridge waited on the table. On the bed sat a leather-bound book titled "Apicius," two of his carving knives and a block of wood.

Quasimodo picked up the wood, noting that it was hard, knotty and unsuitable for carving. The book was worn. He passed through the pages noting the Greek titles and Latin text. He set the book on the table, moving the porridge aside. He smiled weakly. Leaning back, he allowed his body to fall into the mattress.

Within moments, and atop the blanket, Quasimodo slept.


	11. Renewal

Renewal

Dion stepped into the room, his arms filled with bowls, buckets and cloths. He turned to Quasimodo, who lay asleep on the bed, wrapped in the cloak of a soldier. Noisily, he heaped his burden onto a nearby table. Embedded into the cold porridge sat a wooden spoon, the meal otherwise untouched. Looking to the bell-ringer, Dion watched as he shivered under the cloak. He stepped closer, watching every small movement of his eyelids.

Dion reached under the bed, removing a stowed blanket. While unfolding the blanket, he noted the size of the bell ringers arms. The awkwardness of his frame was accentuated by muscle. Physical weakness was unnatural for him. Dion slowly draped the blanket over Quasimodo, being careful not to wake him.

He tended the fire, brightening the room with a rich golden light. Quasimodo remained still, other than the rise and fall of his chest and hump. As the room warmed, Quasimodo ceased shivering. Resigning himself to wait, Dion lifted the book from the table, passively flipping through the pages. He skimmed the recipes, finding himself growing hungrier as he read.

"There are herbs, turnips and cabbages in the cellar." Dion spoke to Quasimodo as he read through the pages. "Perhaps reading this will help your appetite?"

Dion lowered the book into his lap. Sunlight now flooded the room.

Quasimodo's eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. Sensing movement, he turned to face the novice. Dion met his gaze and quickly stood, offering his arm. Quasimodo remained still for a moment, his focus moving between the young mans arm and his face. After a time, he pushed himself from the bed, using the Dion's arm for balance.

"You were at the Hotel Dieu, Monsieur Frollo." Quasimodo sighed before offering an affirming nod.

"I've never heard Brother Rocher speak so loudly before. He shouted at the Romani woman when finding her in here, rather than you. She gave him an earful, something that may have been overdue." Dion laughed. He nodded to Quasimodo's bruise. "This is looking better, it's now more yellow than purple. It almost looks natural."

"Esmeralda left these things?" Quasimodo motioned to his carving knives and the book. "I have angered Brother Rocher, and my friends are suffering for it."

"He's grouchy to everyone. Your friend, she stood up to him well. She must care about you deeply." Dion leaned forward, each motion of his lips accentuated. He smiled as he wiped away the dried ointment with warm water. Quasimodo slumped. "No fault lies with you when others interfere with Brother Rocher's schedule."

Dion blotted Quasimodo's bruise dry with a clean rag. He lifted the bowl of ointment.

"It's only eleven more days." Dion smiled.

"I'd rather go home now."

"You'll not be permitted to leave until your colour has returned. Monsieur Frollo, look at your hand. Should you try, you'd not make it to the bell tower."

Quasimodo looked to his fingers, which remained a whiter shade of pale.

Dion lifted the ointment to Quasimodo's bruise. He coated the discoloured skin, resting the bowl on the edge of the bed.

"Brother Rocher must be convinced that you've recovered. Were you injured again, he'd take it personally. He's not heartless." Dion picked up the untouched porridge, placing it in Quasimodo's hand. "Eating like a bird will not help."

Quasimodo looked to his side, Phoebus' cloak remained secured to him. He unfastened the wooden buttons holding it in place.

Dion lifted the cloak from Quasimodo's shoulders. He folded it, placing it on the chair.

"You really should eat and rest, Monsieur Frollo."

"Why do you call me that?" Quasimodo looked into Dion's eyes.

"I must not be impolite." Dion lifted a letter from under the candelabra, placing it is Quasimodo's hand. "It is also written on these."

"This the name I prefer, Dion." Quasimodo rested his finger next to his own name, covering the name "Frollo" with his thumb. He returned the letter to Dion.

"The meaning of your given name... it's harsh. It's cruel and doesn't describe you." Dion inspected the untouched wax seal. He returned the letter to the table. "The letters are from the Palace of Justice, are they not? The matter must be important. Letters have arrived daily."

"Eleven more days." Quasimodo stared at the letter, his words faint. "It does, quite well."

"I will return later, Monsieur..." Dion paused, his gaze shifting nervously for a moment. He hastily stacked the bowls in his arms and smiled. "Monsieur bell-ringer."

Quasimodo smiled weakly.

* * *

Hours passed. Rather than wander through the infirmary, Quasimodo lifted the book from the table. He read through the chapters on wine, spices and preparing meat. He read about testing for spoiled honey and how to preserve grapes through winter. After reading how to prepare cuttlefish croquettes, he flipped through the pages. No illustration of a cuttlefish or a croquette could be found. He slid the book away from him.

Quasimodo looked through the window, away from the plain walls. Long shadows passed by, those of birds. Movement at the doorway caused him to look up, away from the shadows. Phoebus stood, shivering slightly. In his arms sat a steaming bundle of cloth. A bag lay slung over one arm. After stepping into the room, he pulled the chair closer to the bed with his boot.

"It's good to see you're awake." Phoebus unwrapped wooden bowls and a clay pot, setting them on the table. "Don't feel obliged to have any. It's here if you want it."

"What is it?" Quasimodo turned to the table, inspecting the pot. Phoebus lifted away the lid.

"A stew of mutton and turnips, seasoned with herbs. You're welcome, by the way. Esmeralda suggested snail soup."

Quasimodo sat for a moment, watching the steam rise in whirls. He returned his gaze to Phoebus, who fastened his cloak around his shoulders.

"Esmeralda and I are worried about you. Justice Moreau is also persistent in his request for a meeting." Phoebus pulled the letter from the table and held it out.

"I saw that earlier."

"It's unopened. Quasi, this must be taken seriously. I know it's a bad time. There will never be a good time. The officials and lawyers are growing impatient. You must know that they are anxious about the 'suspicious' death of Claude Frollo."

Quasimodo broke the seal on the letter, the wax crumbling to the floor.

 _Monsieur Quasimodo Frollo,_

 _Your attendance at the Palace of Justice is required to discuss the sudden passing of the late Claude Frollo. The council, Vassal and lawyer of the Claude Frollo will meet within the East Hall at sunrise on Monday, January 21, 1482, to discuss matters regarding his estate._

 _Justice Florentin Moreau_

"What day is it today?" Quasimodo folded the letter and tossed it toward the fire, missing.

"Saturday. The meeting was delayed due to pressure from the clergy. The monks are also making it harder to see you." Phoebus filled two bowls with stew. "I doubt Esmeralda will be allowed to visit, after she berated Brother Rocher for sedating you. I'm surprised the old fart permitted my entrance."

"I never thought I'd say it, but..." Quasimodo grasped the blanket in his hands, pulling it tight to his shoulders. "More than anything, I want to return to the bell-tower and remain there."

"After meeting Justice Moreau, you may do whatever you choose." Phoebus leaned against the table. "I will be there with you. Ultimately, no one may take your place. If it's of any comfort, the East Hall faces Notre Dame."

"Why would they want me there?" Quasimodo accepted the bowl. "That's not who I am."

"By law, you are. You were Christened with the name written on the letter." Phoebus nodded toward the tossed letter, while holding out his bowl. With an exaggerated motion, he dunked the bread into the bowl. "There are lawyers demanding to know how Claude Frollo perished. They'll not speak with Esmeralda, nor will they accept the word of those who witnessed his fall from the square. The date on that letter will not change. Justice must be served."

"The horse, is he still locked in that stable?" Quasimodo peered up at Phoebus.

"I've turned him into a paddock. He's fine for now. As tomorrow is Sunday, perhaps consider..." Phoebus paused, his eyes closing for a moment. "Have you seen yourself lately?"

"Phoebus, please. I understand. Nothing will fix this." Quasimodo motioned his hand over his face, before swiping it toward the ground.

"A comb and blade." Phoebus shook his head. "That is all."

Quasimodo gently stroked his left hand over his bruise and down his cheek. His eyes closed as he felt the ointment pass into the stubble covering his chin. Looking about the room, he suddenly realized that it was bare of the essentials found in the tower. He passed his hand through his hair, noting to his dismay that it had tangled.

"You said nothing earlier." Quasimodo put his knuckles to his forehead, eyeing Phoebus.

"You were falling asleep on your feet." Phoebus reached out with the toe of his boot, pulling a small crate from under the bed. "It would be best to appear well-groomed before the Justice. You will need this."

Quasimodo's worried expression faded as he looked to the crate resting on the floor between them. His own hinged blade, comb, scuttle, and other tools were neatly stowed. A silver-edged mirror, recently washed, sat neatly tucked among them.

"You gathered my things from the tower?"

"Of course, you'll need them. Mirrors are expensive and it seemed wrong to find this one covered in pigeon droppings." Phoebus looked up, noting the blank expression on his friends face. Hastily, he cleared his throat, then scooped bread into the stew, taking a large bite. "This is quite good, at least try some."

Quasimodo looked into the bowl. Shreds of meat floated throughout the thickened broth. Phoebus held out a loaf of bread, Quasimodo grasped it lightly. He set the bowl into his lap, then tore away a crust. After dipping it in the bowl and staring at it for some time, he ate. Phoebus smiled before returning his attention to his own bowl.

In silence, the bread disappeared, the bowls emptied. Quasimodo looked up from his empty dish, to see Phoebus nodding approvingly.

"It was to your liking?" Phoebus grinned.

Quasimodo nodded, a faint smile appearing. He set the bowl aside.

"I hope to see you tomorrow." Phoebus stacked the dishes in the empty pot, wrapping them. He patted Quasimodo on the shoulder. "The young lad mentioned that there is hot water ready. I should leave before I'm told to."

Phoebus stepped out of the room into the empty hallway. Quasimodo remained still on the bed. His eyes drifted to the doorway. He stood. Seizing laundered clothes from atop a shelf, he packed them in the crate. With his things under his arm, he stepped out of the room.

* * *

Upon his return, Quasimodo found the cell had been tidied and swept, the bedclothes laid smooth. Bread, cheese and ale sat on the table, waiting for him. The letter remained on the floor, where he'd tossed it earlier, as if mocking him. Placing his hand on the wall for balance, he picked up the letter. While stepping toward the bed, he smoothed the crinkles. He folded it, viewing his name written clearly with black ink. Folding the letter, he made "Frollo" disappear and reappear a few times, before drawing a deep breath and returning the letter to the table.

He sat for a moment, his chin resting on his left palm. He stared at his carving knives. Reaching forward, he lifted the wood from the table. Its weight was uneven, the knots hard and unyielding. His attention drifted toward the bread and cheese. He drew the tray to his lap, consuming the meal while studying the simple wooden block.

Quasimodo turned as Brother Rocher passed by the entrance, offering a brief nod. Having set the empty tray aside, he picked up the gnarled, hard block of wood and the larger carving knife. Placing his thumb over the broadest part of the block, he notched a few marks across the irregular grain. Moving himself to the chair, he sat nearer the fire.

As golden light turned to the rosy glow of sunset, Quasimodo remained focused. He continued to peel away layers of wood. Sparks of yellow light rose from the flames as thin curls were tossed in. As the block transformed and smoothed, the blade began to kiss the calluses on Quasimodo's fingers.

The sky grew dim, night rapidly enveloping Paris. Quasimodo continued to work by glow of the fire. Brother Rocher and Dion passed by unnoticed. He only paused for a moment when the blade slipped, nicking the middle finger on his left hand. After pressing the cut against his palm for a few moments, he continued to shape the stubborn piece of wood. A small drop of blood soaked into the grain, staining it.

Near midnight, Quasimodo sat on the bed. He rolled the small, smooth wooden bowl in his palm. The grain of the wood swirled around the depression in the centre. The gnarled, burl-like grain had yielded itself into something more delicate and beautiful. He slipped the bowl into his pocket.

A shaky breath escaped as Quasimodo sighed. He lowered himself onto his side, then pushed himself onto his back. Overhead, a series of dark brown and black lines walled him in. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining bells over him, rather than plain wooden boards. He imagined the gentle hum of the bells after they tolled. He imagined the tranquil coolness felt while standing beneath them, even on the warmest and windiest days.

* * *

Quasimodo opened his eyes suddenly, unsure if he'd slept. He remained unmoved on the bed, facing the ceiling. He could feel his body shake with each heartbeat. He lifted his hand to his chest, feeling his heart pounding through his breast. No light penetrated the little cell. The window had long disappeared into blackness. Other than a faint red glow from the few remaining coals, the room was dark and still. He rolled himself toward the edge of the bed and sat up.

"Hello?"

The word was spoken softly. He waited, quietly for a few moments, waiting for a hand to appear from the darkness and touch his shoulder. He reached out, his fingertips grazing the handle of the little bell. Surely, were someone nearby, they would hear it and come rushing. He pulled his hand away, remaining still with his feet on the floor. He felt the blanket roll from his shoulders. He tugged it back over himself, snugging it to the back of his neck. He grasped the blankets edges firmly, leaning his head against the fabric. He sighed deeply, then released his hands. He pushed himself from the bed, rising to his feet.

For a few moments, Quasimodo remained still. Each of his toes spread out on the floor, covered only by stockings. He pulled the blanket forward, allowing it to rest firmly on his hump. Blind in the night, as well as deaf, he felt his way through the darkness. He stepped toward the cool air of the corridor. Once in the hall, he followed the stone walls toward the nave of Notre Dame. The blanket slipped off, lost onto the stone floor. He continued forward.

As slowly as he could, he opened the door into the nave. In his mind, he begged the hinges to remain silent, to not announce his presence to those within earshot. Notre Dame remained dimly lit, candles burning only at the entrances. A single candle burning near the entrance to the infirmary. It was well past midnight, everyone within Notre Dame should be sleeping. Gently, he lifted candle from its holder.

Quasimodo stepped toward the altar, pausing a few paces away from it. Towering above him, Jesus lay draped over Marys lap, angels surrounding them. Their perfect stone bodies scattered the flickering candlelight. A chill moved up his spine, causing his back to straighten slightly. The unnatural position caused his hands to falter for a moment, casting bright flashes of light dancing over the virgin mother.

Quasimodo looked up, toward the virgin. He tilted his head, studying the Holy family with his good eye. He passed his hand over his left eye, over the bump that had adorned his face since birth. He stood, painfully aware that his knees nearly touched, as did the tips of his toes.

"Why does my existence offend you? You, who made me this way?" Quasimodo remained still, before the first step. The candle flame flickered and sputtered from his shaking hands. "Is it true that I'm unfit to stand here? Or..." Quasimodo looked to his own hands, to the small flame cradled in his palms. He closed his eyes. "Was that all a lie?"

Quasimodo remained below the altar, holding the single candle. His gaze continued to shift between the statues, to the steps and to his own toes. No gust of air blew over him, extinguishing the flame and driving him away. No hand of God reached out and forced him from the altar. Hesitantly, he shifted his weight, lifting his left foot. Slowly, he placed his toes onto the first step. He paused, looking up. The statues remained still. Following with his right foot, he stood on the first step.

Quasimodo scanned the stone eyes of the angels, of the Virgin Mary and of Christ. They remained still. He swallowed, then reached out with his right hand, placing the candle on the edge of the highest step. He watched as his feet slowly moved up the steps. Pain shot through his knees as they pressed onto the smooth marble tile. He folded his feet behind himself and looked up at the moving shadows.

"How is forgiveness even possible?"

Quasimodo's words were soft, nearly a whisper. He reached into his pocket, removing a few small articles. He lay them out on the marble, near his knees. Quasimodo held out his hands, his callused palms facing upward. He looked to the piece of lead, which appeared like coal in the dim light, before returning turning his attention to the cross that adorned the altar.

"I'm responsible for the death of four people. Three soldiers died by these hands. I don't even know their names, Phoebus refuses to say. The blood of my Master, my teacher..."

Quasimodo sighed, then folded his hands together, grasping his elbows. He turned away from the altar, his chin nearly touching his left shoulder.

"...it's on my hands. None would have died if I'd remained here, within Notre Dame. If I'd not grown envious of others, if I'd not grown dissatisfied with my life. I don't regret leaving, either. How can I explain that, given the choice and knowing what would happen, I'd do it again?"

While he rubbed his forearms, the fingers of his right hand passed over the scar on his left arm. The final scar that Claude Frollo placed into his skin. The last strike before he admitted to killing his mother.

With closed eyes, he remembered the countless times he'd witnessed performers arrested. The countless times Clopin led soldiers on wild chases through the streets, before escaping. How many times had Romani not out run the soldiers? He recalled watching helpless Romani held behind bars, awaiting either the gallows or the fire. He recalled Esmeralda tied to the stake, the flames licking her ankles, while he watched in chains.

"I did... I did what I thought was right. I could not bear to see Esmeralda killed for a crime she did not commit, her people in cages. What he was doing, it was wrong, it felt wrong. Is that what Archdeacon Chevrier meant?"

Quasimodo released his hands, clasping them at his chest.

"Lord, will you ever forgive me?"

He grasped the edge of the altar. His hands quickly grew cold, like the stone. He faced his knees, shaking his head.

"He killed many people, didn't he."

For a few minutes, Quasimodo remained still. Two images of Claude Frollo appeared in his mind. The first was his Master, mentor and teacher, a man that he loved as a father. The first had adopted him as his son and raised him. The second was a terror to the Romani and anyone who dared to assist them. The second had tried to kill him, and those that he loved. The second... Quasimodo clenched his eyes closed. The second had convinced him he was a monster, lied to him and left him badly scarred. Quasimodo passed his fingers over his head, forcing his hair into disarray. He clasped his hands at the back of his neck. His knuckles pressing into his hump as he looked upward.

"What happened? You must know, you watch all that happens."

Fire moved into Quasimodo's chest, causing him to swallow.

"Why did he raise me in Notre Dame? Why did he raise me at all, rather than killing me like he said he wanted to? What purpose did he have in Christening me as 'Frollo,' when he could have easily done otherwise? Why did he take the effort to teach me everything that he did? I don't understand."

Quasimodo scanned the faces of the angels, of the Holy family. They remained still and silent. The air remained still. No answers appeared, in the night air or within his mind. He waited, watching for any sign, as the candle burned. He felt the movement of his tunic over his chest with each breathe, with each pounding heartbeat. His legs ached. No sign appeared. With his right hand, he guided his hair away from his eyes.

"For everything he taught me, I am grateful. Without him... there is a void. I loved him."

Quasimodo closed his eyes. They ached, they threatened to release what he held back.

"If I loved him, why should I deny his name?"

Quasimodo's jaw lowered slightly. His eyes opened, growing wide. He looked up, toward the silent statues. His gaze darted toward the little wooden bowl. Lifting in into his palm, he ran his finger over the smoothly carved wood.

"Maybe you never loved me at all. Thank-you for raising me, anyhow. I forgive you the rest."

Quasimodo placed the small carved bowl upright. Pouring a few drops of wax from the other candle, he coated the bottom of the bowl. He pressed a candle nub from his cell into the wax and set it on the altar. Dipping a piece of wood in beeswax, he lifted a small flame to the candle, lighting its wick. A sad smile appeared on his face as the flame sputtered and grew. Softly, he recited the prayer that he knew he should. The words that would help release Claude Frollo from purgatory. He watched the candle flame.

 _O Lord, who art ever merciful and bounteous with Thy gifts, look down upon the suffering souls in purgatory. Remember not their offenses and negligences, but be mindful of Thy loving mercy, which is from all eternity._

Quasimodo rested his fingertips on marble edge of the altar, balancing himself. He turned to face the floor. His hair fell forward, once more sliding between his eyes and the candle light. His shoulders and back began to ache. He continued the prayer.

 _Cleanse them of their sins and fulfill their ardent desires that they may be made worthy to behold Thee face to face in Thy glory. May they soon be united with Thee and hear those blessed words which will call them to their heavenly home: "Come, blessed of My Father, take possession of the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world."_

Letting go of the marble edge, Quasimodo lowered his hands to the floor. He looked to each side of him, noting a lack of movement. Gently, he extinguished the candle that burned next to him, pinching it between his fingers. He looked to the altar, to the candle that burned for Claude Frollo.

Quasimodo remained kneeling. He drew his chin to his chest, clenching his jaw. His heart ached. Chills moved through his body, causing him to tremble.

"Please, Lord. Forgive me."

* * *

The sun had yet to rise, when a Romani woman approached the altar to pray. As she neared the altar, she jumped back, startled by the presence of another sleeping where prayers were offered.

She peered down, stepping back as she recognized his shape. After her initial shock, she stepped forward, studying his features by glow of the candle. She looked about. Notre Dame appeared deserted.

Quickly, she stepped away. She returned to her bed, to the place she'd slept each night since the Court of Miracles was taken. Scooping up a blanket, she returned to the altar with light steps. Quasimodo remained asleep, quietly shaking. She placed the blanket over him, being careful not to disturb his rest. She knelt beside him, watching for a few moments. She studied the lump over his eye and the strange angles of his face from a respectful distance. Even while sleeping, she could see that his expression was soft.

Once certain that the bell-ringer remained sleeping, she offered her prayer. She lit another candle, placing it next to the one that already burned. She smiled before returning to her people.

A few moments before the sun appeared, Father Vanier walked through Notre Dame. He noticed the mass of fabric laying before the altar, a misshapen orange, blue and grey mound emblazoned with a cheerful yellow sun and moon. He placed his hand on the highest part of the mound, pushing it with his hand. Quasimodo looked about, until meeting the eyes of the priest.

"Quasimodo, what are you doing here?"

Father Vaniers words slowed as observed Quasimodo's suddenly blank expression.

"You must have fallen asleep. Of course, you are free to remain. However, I would suggest that you return to the infirmary before Brother Rocher notices your absence, and before mass begins."

Father Vanier offered his hand to Quasimodo, who grasped it firmly. His knees shook, threatening to buckle. He stood, his hands catching the blanket that lay over him. He looked down, noting the strange colours and pattern.

"Someone must have thought you appeared cold." Father Vanier smiled. "I will return this to whomever loaned it."

"Please thank them for me." Quasimodo set the blanket in the priests arms.

Quasimodo stepped through the dim light and toward his infirmary cell.


	12. A New Life

A New Life

Brother Rocher walked through the infirmary. As he moved through the corridor, a discarded blanket caught his eye. He rolled the blanket into his arms while hastily stepping toward the little cell. The cell was deserted, the bedclothes crumpled. He tossed the blanket on the bed.

Retracing his steps, he then turned to the nave of Notre Dame. While storming toward the entrance to the bell-tower, a familiar voice reached his ears. He paused, turning to look toward the altar. His eyes straining to focus in the direction of the voice. A white-clad figure chatted with one in red and purple. His temper lessened. He left the nave.

"Laurent, where are you?" Brother Rocher stood in the sewing room. Brother Laurent poked his head from behind a fresh stack of fabrics. "Why are you working on the Lords day?"

Brother Laurent crossed his arms at his chest, glaring at the elder monk.

"I'm not working. I'm matching the colours for the next pieces. Are these not lovely?" Brother Laurent looked up, noting the disapproving expression of Brother Rocher. "Yes, it's finished. Second shelf from the right, next to the blankets."

"Quasimodo was at the altar, I suspect he followed the orders of the Archdeacon." Brother Rocher inspected the seams and pockets of the cloak. "He's not disobedient, yet he's stubborn."

"You provoke him, I've heard you." Brother Laurent walked around the table, his right hand remaining on the fabric pile. "You even brought Dion into it, the poor lad. The rest of us call him by name he prefers, just as you are now. What are you trying to accomplish?"

Brother Rocher huffed. Brother Laurent leaned forward.

"What Claude Frollo did to your family must be set aside. Quasimodo had no part and knows nothing of it."

"He doesn't remain in his quarters. A more difficult patient..."

"Just what has he done? You said it yourself, his soul mourns." Brother Laurent glared, while firmly stacking the fabrics. "He's done no harm to you or anyone else. Rather, it's the contrary. None of us interfered when we should have, despite knowing better."

"Frollo tossed Father Vanier aside as if he were a leaf. You at least made an attempt." Brother Rocher folded the cloak. "It will be good when he returns to the tower. The bells sound dreadful."

"When will you let him?" Brother Laurent raised his chin slightly, nodding toward the cloak. "Tomorrow? Next week? After Lent?"

"It's been four days." Brother Rocher argued. "He showed improvement only yesterday."

"Don't let your opinion of Claude Frollo cloud your good judgement, Brother. Dion is young, and may easily climb to the tower."

* * *

Phoebus stepped into the Notre Dame, bearing a large sack of firewood. Evening mass had ended, leaving Notre Dame empty. Much like incense, the gentle murmur of prayers and shuffling footsteps carried through the air. Phoebus stopped before climbing the stairs to the bell-tower. An unusual shadow drew his attention between the columns, to a brightly lit area. Leaving the sack on the floor, he walked through the nave.

"Are you not supposed to be in the infirmary?" Phoebus looked to Quasimodo, who stood under a thick blue cloak. Dion backed away slightly.

"Brother Rocher said it was best that I begin my new duties as soon as possible." Quasimodo gathered the candle nubs into his right hand and dropped them into a bucket. "They are rather simple."

"So, on any given evening, I may walk into Notre Dame after mass and find you replacing the candles?"

"Yes. Every night." Quasimodo melted a small amount of wax into one of the holders, firmly planting a candle into it. He guided the candelabra to its upright position, then turned to Phoebus. Dion set the basket of new candles onto the floor and walked away.

"It will be good for you, Quasi."

"If you say so." He cracked a smile, while limping to the next candelabra. "The first time someone claims sanctuary, they may just run out again."

"Then, he would be a fool." Phoebus lifted the basket. "You are ready for tomorrow morning?"

"Not at all." Quasimodo tilted the candelabra, removing the burnt ends. His expression remained neutral. "Tomorrow will come whether I'm prepared or not."

"If nothing else, you appear ready." Phoebus held out the bucket, the stubs pouring in. "Nothing is out of place, Esmeralda would be impressed. What happened to your hair? It's... short."

"Brother Laurent." Quasimodo shook his head, smiling. "Is it bad?"

"Does it matter?" Phoebus shrugged. "It will make no difference for tomorrow."

"Then, it doesn't matter at all."

Phoebus carried the basket while Quasimodo finished replacing the candles. Quasimodo walked Phoebus to the great door.

"Try to get some rest, Quasi. I will see you tomorrow."

Quasimodo nodded, then watched Phoebus disappear into the night. He barred the doors, leaving the portal of St Anne unfastened. Notre Dame was now empty, save the monks that walked about. Quasimodo returned to his cell. A bed of glowing red coals provided heat, a single candle provided light.

He hung his cloak and tunic on the wall. He folded his breeches and stockings. Slipping between the thick covers, Quasimodo adjusted the pillows and blankets around himself. Nearby, the candle burned, its light dancing over the plain walls. He watched the blackness of the open door, feeling the gentle flow of chilled air from the corridor. Pulling the blankets closer around himself, he watched the faint movement of fabric from a passing monk. With his fingertips, Quasimodo pinched the flame. He lay in darkness, awaiting sleep.

* * *

The sky remained black. Quasimodo lay on the bed, uncertain if he'd slept or not. He loosened the blankets from around his neck. The room had grown cold, the fire having turned to ashes. Having pulled himself from the warmth of the covers, he stirred the coals. With new fuel, the hot coals brightened from red to yellow, lighting the room.

He combed his hair, washed his face and dressed himself. Then, he anxiously paced the cell. He arranged the collar on his shirt, flattening each side. He fitted the cloak to his shoulders, smoothing each wrinkle and fold. A yellow glow appeared from the corridor. Quasimodo stepped out, to see Phoebus walking toward him.

Phoebus and Quasimodo walked from Notre Dame, across the square and into the Palace of Justice. The Palace was filled with stairs and narrow passages. Unlike Notre Dame, the air was thick with mold and moisture. Quasimodo drew his cloak to his nose.

The doors of the East Hall were open. Inside, a large table lay bare. A fire blazed, warming the hall and drying the air. Quasimodo stepped forward, to the large window that overlooked the island, and Notre Dame. The glow of twilight revealed the two bell-towers. Resting his hands on the window ledge, Quasimodo leaned forward, staring at his home.

"Phoebus?" He sighed while passing his fingers through the dust, drawing random designs. "What is about to happen."

Phoebus stood, waiting for Quasimodo to face him.

"I don't really know, Quasi. Listen in whatever way you normally do, catch every word. Don't let anyone mislead you with what they say."

Quasimodo swallowed, then shifted his stare into space, his attention drifting back to Notre Dame. He rested his knuckles at his lips, which had parted slightly. Movement caused him to look away from the window.

A young man in novice robes stepped in, bearing a sheet of paper. He stepped back as Quasimodo turned to him. Phoebus breathed out a heavy sigh, shaking his head disappointingly.

"Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers. Quasimodo... Frollo. " The young man read from the page, nodding to each of them. "The meeting has been moved to Justice Moreau's office."

Quasimodo shifted his glance to Phoebus, who shrugged his shoulders.

"Close quarters. " Phoebus sighed, then patted his friend on the back. "Why not make this uncomfortably intimate, right Quasi?"

Quasimodo groaned, before following the novice. Phoebus walked behind.

* * *

The room was small, a large desk in the centre. Candles filled the room, polished bronze reflecting their light. A single narrow window permitted the faintest morning light into the room. On one side of the desk, an old man sat hunched over a small pile of documents. A dusty shelf, nearly devoid of books, was affixed to the wall behind him. Thin, wispy hair covered the mans otherwise wrinkled head. Opposite him, a row of chairs remained empty.

The young man ushered Quasimodo and Phoebus into the room, then removed himself from the office.

"Monsieur Quasimodo Frollo, bell-ringer at Notre Dame de Paris." Justice Moreau looked to both men, then rested his gaze on Quasimodo. "Ah. That would be you. Be seated. Captain Phoebus, I assume you are companion to Monsieur Frollo."

"Yes, your honour."

"Very well. Take your seat. The others shall be in shortly."

Phoebus directed Quasimodo to the seat farthest to the right of Justice Moreau.

Within moments, the novice guided three men into the room. Two heavy-set men in robes entered. Behind them, a plainly-dressed lean man strode in.

"Maître Dufour, Maître Defraine." Justice Moreau nodded. I assume that you have the Vassal of the Frollo Fief, Arsène Gauthier, with you this morning."

"Yes, your honor." Maître Dufour nodded.

"Very well, be seated." Justice Moreau motioned to the chairs.

"Claude Frollo was more thoughtful than his parents, having taken the time to craft this. It should resolve any questions. Unfortunately he wrote it in Greek, rather than Latin." Justice Moreau lifted a tied scroll of parchment on the desk. "However, before we begin, I believe that Monseiur Gauthier has raised concern."

"Yes, your honour." Arsène answered.

Maître Dufour nodded. "Maître Defraine and I have evidence that the foundling, Quasimodo, is a both a murderer and an imposter."

"Serious matters indeed, and best placed before the Court if true." Justice Moreau leaned back in his chair, untying the scroll. "Given the seriousness of the accusations, present your evidence."

"What evidence required, other than what is before our eyes?" Maître Defraine sat tall. "It is well-known that Quasimodo possesses monstrous strength. Your honor, Quasimodo could have pulled Claude Frollo to safety. He chose not to."

"Quasimodo willfully caused Claude Frollo to fall from Notre Dame, to his death." Maitre Dufour's nose wrinkled in disgust as he glanced towards Quasimodo. Phoebus leaned forward in his chair, placing himself between Quasimodo and the others.

"He's clearly an idiot, anyone could tell just by looking at him." Maître Defraine sneered. "If that were not proof enough, he's not responded to a single word I've said."

Justice Moreau looked to Quasimodo who waited calmly. He studied his sturdy frame, pale countenance and discoloured eyebrow.

"Monsieur Frollo." The old man raised the scroll to his nose, peering over the edge of the page. "There are some who argue that the death of Claude Frollo, your adoptive father, was at your hand. What say you?"

Quasimodo remained still, his eyelids narrowing slightly toward the Justice.

"I'm awaiting your answer, Monsieur Frollo."

Quasimodo remained still, yet focused on the old man, scanning his eyebrows for some indication of movement. Justice Moreau lowered the document and looked into Quasimodo's eyes.

"Did you hear me, Monsieur Frollo?"

Quasimodo's eyes grew wide for a moment, before nearly closing and turning away. He stuttered. "No, your honor. I... I could not..." Quasimodo sunk into his seat slightly. He felt Phoebus' knuckles press firmly onto his back. He corrected his posture.

Phoebus' worried glance darted between Quasimodo and Justice Moreau.

Quasimodo sat on the edge of the wide chair. Before him, the old man watched his every movement. Each word leaving his lips suddenly became clear, as if written on a page.

"Of course. You are a bell-ringer, at Notre Dame de Paris."

Quasimodo nodded.

"Much like a squirrel climbing a tree with a nut, the brute carried a witch from the stake and up the walls of Notre Dame cathedral. With such strength, there was no reason for Claude Frollo to fall." Maître Dufour stated firmly.

"Have you scaled the walls of Notre Dame Cathedral by hand?"

"Yes, your honour."

"It is also true that you carried the gypsy, 'Similar,' while climbing the cathedral?"

"Esmeralda" Phoebus interjected.

Quasimodo nodded.

"Esmeralda was holding Quasimodo, until he slipped out of her hands. He also fell." Phoebus argued.

"No mere woman could hold a beast such as this in her hands." Maître Dufour interrupted. "Quasimodo could have lifted himself and Claude Frollo to safety."

Justice Moreau turned his attention to Quasimodo, who remained attentive. Phoebus breathed heavily, his lips drawn tight.

"Phoebus, you have something else to add?" Justice Moreau gestured toward him. Quasimodo turned to his friend.

"With all due respect your honour, Quasimodo is unable to sustain himself in such a position for more than a few breaths." Phoebus interrupted. "His shoulders... he'd smother himself."

"Bollocks. I could remain in that position, without monstrous strength." Maître Dufour scoffed.

"He was limp when I caught him. The bruises from the parapet remain, should you wish to see them." Phoebus gestured to his own ribs.

"Monsieur Frollo, do you remember falling from the cathedral?"

"No, your honour."

"There was no fall." Maître Dufour interrupted. Quasimodo continued to speak, his tone remaining even.

"Master attacked us on the Galerie des Chimères. Esmeralda was holding my hand. Moments later, I was in the Colonnade with Phoebus." Quasimodo's attention drifted for a moment. "Master... Claude Frollo was standing on a gargoyle, holding a sword. His eyes, they were red, angry eyes. The gargoyle, it fell away. I couldn't breathe."

"Maître Dufour says that Claude Frollo was in your grasp. Yet you say he stood over you." Justice Moreuu leaned forward. "Which was it?"

"His cloak..." Quasimodo's words were shaky, nearly stuttering. "He pulled himself back onto Notre Dame by swinging from his cloak." His eyelids tensed with each word, confusion creeping into his speech. "He ignored Esmeralda. He was swinging his sword at... me."

"Maître Dufour, Maître Defraine. Gargoyles on Notre Dame were indeed fractured by blade. One was found atop Claude Frollo's remains. Would you have another explanation before we move on?"

Neither man offered words. Arsène looked to each, speechless.

"How many bell-ringers does Notre Dame have?" Justice Moreau rested his chin on his left hand.

"One, your honour."

"I see." Justice Moreau nodded, then reached into a drawer with his right hand. "Are there any assistants helping you? Does anyone else sound the bells?"

"No." Quasimodo paused. "Others are ringing them now, however."

As he spoke, tolling bells sounded throughout the city.

"You are employed by the Bishop, correct?" Justice Moreau set a bottle of ink onto the desk. "You have lived in Notre Dame as long as you remember."

"Yes, your honour." Quasimodo formed a weak fist with each hand. He looked to his whitened knuckles. "The bell-tower... It's... It's all I've ever known."

"Then, it is correct to assume that you are educated." The Justice passed a quill and paper to Quasimodo. "Write for me the names of the twelve Apostles."

Quasimodo accepted the quill, pausing a moment before neatly writing each name. Lacking a place to set the quill without spilling ink, it remained between his fingers. Phoebus lifted it from his hands, tapping out the ink and resting it on the edge of the bottle.

"Very good." Justice Moreau took the page and passed it to the lawyers, without offering a glance to the words.

"A well-trained dog, then." Arsène laughed. Maître Dufour elbowed him. Justice Moreau reached over his own shoulder, removing a Latin text from a nearby shelf. He opened the book and held it out. "Monsieur Frollo, read this, then explain what is says, so that everyone here may understand."

Quasimodo did so. Justice Moreau drew another book.

"This one is Greek." Justice Moreau passed a book to Quasimodo. "Read to me the third stanza on the page. Then, tell me what it is about."

Quasimodo scanned the poem, then set the book down.

"This is not Greek, Your Honor." Quasimodo focused on the text. "This describes Grendels Claw."

"My mistake." Justice Moreau lifted the book away, whilst eyeing the vassal and his companions. "Should I continue, Maître Defour? Maître Dufraine? Perhaps we should."

The vassal leaned back in his chair, kneading the arms with his sweaty fingers. The lawyers looked to their robes, tugging on the embroidery. Justice Moreau opened a copy of the Odyssey and passed it across the desk.

"Begin reading."

Quasimodo accepted the book, noting the gilt lettering. He began to read. While some words were mispronounced and the verses lacked proper cadence, the words were undeniably Greek, and read from the page. Justice Moreau held out his hand, awaiting the return of his book.

"Gentleman, Monsieur Frollo is clearly not an "idiot" as you have so gracefully summarized. All clergy are able to read and write. Monsieur Frollo is undoubtedly the bell-ringer of Notre Dame, bearing the colours of his profession at this moment. As such, the matter you bring forth is out of my jurisdiction, only a Church Court may judge him.

"He is a foundling, not blood." Arsène blurted.

"Which bring us to this, gentlemen." Justice Moreau lifted a parchment from beneath the scroll, laying it neatly on the desk. "Father Lacroix provided this, a certificate clearly bears the name of Minister Claude Frollo as father and Brother Joseph Laurent as a witness to the Christening. Archdeacon Arthus Chevrier himself anointed this man as a child of God."

Quasimodo looked up as the Justice gestured toward him.

"Maître Dufour, would you read this name for me, if you don't mind."

Maître Defour looked to the page, then to Quasimodo. He leaned back into his chair, away from the desk and away from Justice Moreau.

"That is not just." The Arsène shouted. Maître Dufraine extended his arm, blocking him.

"My ruling meets the requirement of Claude Frollo's will. As long as Monsieur Frollo is employed by the Bishop, his needs will be met by the estate, as written by Claude Frollo himself. Having been Christened with the name 'Frollo,' he is also heir. Monsieur Frollo's involvement in the fief is between you and him." Justice Moreau waved his hand between Arsène and Quasimodo. "He'd be generous to permit you and your family to remain, after such terrible allegations."

"As well, should Monsieur Frollo produce an heir, the fief shall remain in the family."

Quasimodo stifled a laugh at the statement. Arsène recoiled in his seat.

"You three are dismissed." Justice Moreau looked to Maître Dufour and Maître Defraine. "I remind you that the Court of the Church is unlikely to rule in your favour."

Maître Dufour, Maitre Defraine and Arsène Gauthier stepped out. The door closed, it's heavy thud causing Quasimodo to jump in his seat. After the door closed, Phoebus and Quasimodo turned to face Justice Moreau.

"Monsieur Frollo, regarding Arsène, he is an excellent shepherd. No doubt Maître Defour sold him on some grand idea or another. Follow up with him in a year. He certainly fears the wrath of God after today, and should behave accordingly."

"Forgive me, your honour." Phoebus questioned. "Suppose this is brought before the Court of the Church?"

"The Church would have none of it." Justice Moreau waved toward the door dismissively. "I've been to Notre Dame and learned far more than necessary by speaking with the monks and priests. I've seen the damaged gargoyles, broken chains and broken columns. A priest presented a sword, found in the rubble, its blade dulled by stone. There is no doubt that Claude Frollo fell. "

"Why do this?" Quasimodo asked.

The old man looked directly to Quasimodo.

"I never cared for Claude Frollo. Quite frankly, most of the demands in this document are ridiculous."

"Your honour, what do you mean." Quasimodo questioned.

"Read it yourself, if you choose. It was written by his own hand." The old man passed the scroll to Quasimodo, who unrolled it.

 _"...fief and worldly possessions shall pass to closest living relative bearing the name Frollo. ...heir to ensure that my ward within Notre Dame remain confined to the bell-tower in perpetuum. Proceeds from the fief must be applied to meeting his needs. Any additional profits may be kept, as appreciation for accepting such undesirable burden."_ He continued to scan the page. "... _buried in_ _Cimetiere de l'Est_ _, next to Henri and Angelique Frollo."_

Quasimodo read the words, then looked up from the scroll. "I buried him myself, a few days ago. He rests in Versailles." Quasimodo's voice lowered. "Cimetiere de l'Est would not have him."

"Wherever he is, he's better off there. Claude Frollo brought endless misery to my office." The old man continued. Justice Moreau rolled the Christening certificate into the scroll and returned both to Quasimodo, who hesitantly accepted them. "I will leave the Palace of Justice in peace, knowing that I had one chance to better him."

The justice pulled two parchments from a small pile. He laid a single document before Quasimodo. "There were a few letters with the will. I have sent all but one."

"Was that wise?" Quasimodo set down the page.

"It is no concern of ours. No harm shall come of it."

"Which letter remains?"

"A letter to his brother, Jehan." Justice Moreau placed a letter into Quasimodo's hands. "Like the others, it has been sewn shut, with soft wax applied at the seams. Jehan is presumed dead, as none have seen him in over twenty years. Should he return, this letter must go to him."

Quasimodo placed the letter into the pocket of his cloak.

"Now, if you don't mind, sign here." Justice Moreau tapped on the page laying before Quasimodo. "Read it if you must. It's to confirm that this meeting has taken place, and that you accept the fief and property of the late Claude Frollo.

Quasimodo read the words. He lifted the quill, dipping the nib into the pot of ink. His hand moved rapidly in the motions of his own name, the only one he'd known for twenty years. The pen paused, forming a small blotch. His hand began to tremble as the quill resumed motion, forming the name "Frollo" in shaky letters next to his own. As the quill left the page, Justice Moreau peeled it away, signed it and set it to dry atop the stack of parchments.

"Regarding the appointment of a new Minister of Justice, that power goes to His Majesty, our King." The old man passed the second parchment to Phoebus. "For now, Monsieur De Chateaupers shall resume his former duties as Captain of the Kings Archers and Paris City Guard. If you would sign here, Captain."

Phobus took the quill from Quasimodo and left a squiggly and blotchy series of lines on the page. Justice Moreau lifted the paper away, signed it and set it with the other pages.

"Thus ends my career." Justice Moreau stood. "Gentleman, I bid you both good day. You are dismissed."

* * *

"Deus ex machina." Quasimodo mumbled as he stepped outside the Palace of Justice.

"A literacy test?" Phoebus shook his head.

"That was not what I expected at all." Quasimodo followed the balustrade as he walked down the steps. "An undesirable burden? Is that how he saw me?"

"Are you surprised, Quasi?" Phoebus paused, looking to his friend. Quasimodo sighed.

"No." He stared at the scroll in his hand, clutching it firmly before tying it into his pocket. With both hands, he tugged the hood of his cloak over his head. "I was only hoping to read something different."

"If you're not accustomed to being called 'Monsieur Frollo' by now, you never will be." Phoebus grinned. Quasimodo shook his head, stifling a laugh with a sigh.

Quasimodo stopped, resting against the stones. He looked to the street, to the horses, people and wagons that moved about. Snow swirled in eddies, coating people in white. He drew his cloak around himself, happy to feel its warmth.

"I want to go home." Quasimodo stated flatly, then turned to Phoebus. "...to my home, under the bells."

Phoebus looked to his friend, who watched him intently.

"First, lets get you to Notre Dame. Esmeralda is probably waiting for us." Phoebus nodded toward the street and resumed walking. Quasimodo followed.

A large canvas hung over the portal of the Last Judgement. The great door lay on the tiles, the broken boards set aside. An aged blacksmith pounded the delicate iron work onto the repaired door. Phoebus and Quasimodo stepped through the thick curtain, coming to rest in the relative warmth. The air, while cool, remained still.

Quasimodo moved toward the spiral staircase leading to the North tower. He sat on the second step and rested, enjoying the scented air. He lowered his hood to his shoulders, comfortable in the relative shadows. People walked through the nave, through the columns and toward the altar. None looked in his direction. A vibration in the steps caused Quasimodo to turn. Father Lacroix stood behind him. Quasimodo rose, hastily stepping to the side.

"Sorry Father." Quasimodo backed away from the first step. Father Lacroix set his hand on Quasimodo's wrist.

"Quasimodo, why are you alone?"

"Phoebus went to find Esmeralda." Quasimodo motioned to the nave. "I was only resting. I will go."

"Go." Father Lacroix spoke. It was not the word, but the direction of the gesture. "Esmeralda is in the tower, I shall send Phoebus to join you."

Quasimodo looked up the steps, toward his tower home. He placed his left foot on the first step, then turned to the priest. Father Lacroix waved his arm upward. Quasimodo continued, climbing the delicate stairwell, then disappeared into the spiraling stone passage. With each step, the air grew cooler and cleaner. Quasimodo refused to stop, despite his tiredness. Each step, while slow, was steady and determined.

Upon reaching the door to the bell-tower, leading to the colonnade, he found a key looped over the handle. He lifted the key, noting familiar green fabric braided to its handle. The door remained locked, yet open. From the inside of the door, the metal plate had been removed. A leaf-shaped handle and keyhole were secured in its place. He unlocked the door, allowing it to open and close freely. Quasimodo leaned against the wall, opposite the open door.

Gently, he let his back slide down the stone wall, until he sat on the step. To his right, cool air flowed from the bell-tower. To his left, warm scented air from the nave rose upward. He grasped the key in his hands, squeezing it firmly. A chill moved through his body, not so much from the passing breeze, but from deep within him. Gooseflesh appeared on his arms and neck as he remained still on the floor.

He clenched his eyelids, in a fruitless attempt to force them to remain dry. His lips pulled into a broad smile. After drawing a deep breath, he turned his lips inward and blinked a few times to clear his vision. For a few moments he breathed deeply, remaining otherwise still, enjoying the change in the air. The smile refused to leave, causing a halted laugh to force his lips apart into a grin. He wiped away the excess moisture from his eyelids, before continuing his climb to the tower.

* * *

End.


	13. Notes & Deleted Scenes

Epilogue

The remains of a finished meal lay out on a table. Coals burned nearby, heating the room beneath the north bell-tower. A jar of ointment and a kettle of herbal tea sat near the fire. Sunlight passed through the clear and multi-coloured windows, casting brightness and colour on the stone floor. Incense burned, scenting the air with lavender. A thick blue cloak hung on a broad peg, next to a red and purple tunic.

Quasimodo sat on a soft bed in a large, loose-fitting white tunic. A thick quilt lay wrapped over his shoulders. On his lap, he playfully drew a pigeon into a notebook. Overhead, the noon bells sounded. Quasimodo set aside the quill and ink, fully enjoying each toll as it shook the tower. He smiled as the sound reached him in a way that only the bells could.

Nearby, Dion sat at a desk, reading a book from Quasimodo's shelf. He turned away from the book as the bells tolled, planting his fingers firmly into his ears. He looked to Quasimodo, noting his trance-like stillness. After the last peal, Dion tossed a bread crust at Quasimodo, bouncing it off his ear. Quasimodo jumped, his eyes springing open. He looked to the crust on the floor, then to the laughing novice. He shook his head, chuckling.

"The others are right, they are lifeless without you." Dion gestured upward. "Just as deafening, though."

"Two more days." Quasimodo lifted the quill from the bottle of ink, and resumed drawing. "They keep calling to me, even when they rest. It's difficult to only visit them."

"The bells are your calling." Dion mumbled. Quasimodo nodded. "I thought I knew mine, yet now..." Dion looked to Quasimodo. "I was sent to Notre Dame to become a monk. Now, I can't take my vows. I must study medicine at the University."

"What makes you so sure of that?" Quasimodo set aside the book, allowing the ink to dry.

"Brother Rocher looked at you and knew what was happening. He knew what herbs to use, which flowers and foods would heal." Dion grew more excited as he spoke. "When you arrived, it appeared that you would die."

"It was nothing, a bruise." Quasimodo shook his head.

"You were limp and pale, like bread dough." Dion rambled. "Now, you're strong again. I want to help others the way he has done. Yet Brother Rocher, he never leaves Notre Dame. The world is large, and to remain here all of ones life... I don't want that. There is so much that could be done out there, in Paris and throughout France. Life has so much to offer, and watching the others these last few days, and you, I can't help but want to see and do more."

Quasimodo looked at the young man, at the unbridled excitement on his face. He could see in Dion the same feeling that he himself felt while sounding the bells, while thinking of the bells and even while being near them.

"I'll visit, of course." Dion hesitated. "That is, if you wouldn't mind."

"I wouldn't mind at all." Quasimodo sighed, whilst pulling the quilt snugly around himself. Dion grinned, then turned back to the book.

* * *

Author Notes

This was a very fun story to write. It required much emotional investment, as well as much research on 15th century customs and practices. It started after reading about the stages of grief. Quasimodo would certainly grieve Claude Frollo, and would likely be the only one to do so. This was my answer to what he'd go through after losing him. Multiple parts of this story are drawn on from the novel. The presence of a small fief, Quasimodo's education & deafness, Claude's useless Brother Jehan and corrupt lawyers are all there. Jehan is missing, rather than having the fate he does in the novel. Elements from the movie are also there, such as the cut on Quasimodo's arm from Claude Frollos sword. Most importantly, how Claude Frollo dies is pulled directly from the Disney movie.

"Frollo" apparently means "one who kills Arthur," so making the Archdeacons given name a variant of "Arthur" seemed amusing. Not quite "Arthur" and not quite killed.

The literacy test is appropriate for the time. Literacy tests were a method of proving someone was a cleric, or had clerical training. If one was a cleric, they could not be sentenced in a public court. They would be required to face a court of the Church. Justice Moreau administers a literacy test to Quasimodo, essentially proving that he has clerical training and can't be tried in the same way as other citizens. Having Quasimodo familiar with multiple languages also fits with the time. Latin, Greek and Hebrew were the three languages that scholars worked toward learning, in addition to their mother tongue. It was a personal choice to switch out Hebrew for English, as I really wanted Quasimodo to read the Canterbury tales. The "Wife of Bath" is deaf, yet functional. Quasimodo needs to read about a deaf character that doesn't let it limit them.

Claude Frollo, by giving Quasimodo his surname and educating him, unwittingly saved Quasimodo much trouble. It may or may not have been following pressure from the clergy. The will was made consciously. Yes, the way the will is written, Quasimodo is, essentially, responsible for himself. Fancy the thought.

Quasimodo does certainly have scars from Claude Frollo, both internally and externally. Only after he forgives Claude Frollo, is he able to move on himself. This was a conscious choice. The ending is meant to show that Quasimodo is finally ready to move on. He's not healed, he's not "better." He's simply ready to step out of transition. Quite literally, he's moved himself from being halfway between the bell-tower and the rest of Paris & is now leaving the door wide open. Ham-fisted symbolism. Without going through what's in this story, he'd not be prepared for the events happening in my later stories.

Please leave comments and reviews. Simple is fine. Much work was placed into this story & it's nice to know what others think of it. Spot a continuity error? Let me know!

* * *

Deleted Scene: The second bath

 _Removed due to redundancy._

Steamy air flowed from the bathhouse. Quasimodo froze, leaning his back to the wall. On the other side of the wall, around that final corner, any number of others could be standing about. It was a large room, Notre Dame had many monks. He felt his hands shaking. The tools in his box rattled about. He looked to the floor, stepping around the corner.

As Quasimodo turned, his eyes met the darkened robes of another. He looked upward, into the eyes of Brother Rocher. Behind him, over a dozen monks milled about. Startled, he drew his attention back to the infirmarian.

"I'm sorry, Brother Rocher. I will leave." He began to turn, yet froze when a warm hand firmly grasped his arm.

"Frollo, squeeze my hand." Quasimodo did so. "That is an improvement. The covered bath, in the corner, has been prepared for you. I trust that no assistance is required with your blade."

"I..." Quasimodo gulped. "I know this." He waved his hand over his chin. Brother Rocher nodded.

"Very well then. Be on." Brother Rocher waved his hand in the direction of the curtained tub.

Quasimodo stepped forward, hugging the crate to his side. He looked to the floor, with only an occasional glance upward, toward the curtains. The path seemed long, narrow and lined with old men in braies. Once at the bath, he stumbled forward, nearly collapsing as he rushed to close the curtain around himself.

For a moment, Quasimodo remained still, noting the shadows of others moving about. He set his crate on the table, removing the necessary tools. He scanned the table. Clean towels and soap lay ready for use. The water was shallow, yet warm. He looked about, checking for open spaces in the curtains. The curtains remained closed and still. He quickly removed his clothes and stepped into the water.

The ointment floated to the surface of the water as he washed. He passed soapy fingers through his hair, loosening tangles and debris. He washed between the folds of his bruise until plant matter ceased to rinse out. He felt his toes and fingers warm and wrinkle. Once clean, he stepped out of the water, wrapping himself in towels. He looked to his hands, which were now flushed pink. They remained steady.

He dipped his scuttle into the water, filling it. With care and precision, he passed the blade over his face and neck. While the razor moved over his skin, his eyes remained closed. The fingers of his left hand served as his only guide. He washed his face, feeling for missed areas. For the first time in days, his chin was smooth.

He combed his hair, removing knots and snarls. He dressed in fresh clothing. Gently, he cleaned his tools, returning them to the crate. When he lifted the curtain, the bathhouse had emptied. Golden light lay over the floor, causing puddles of water to shimmer and sparkle. Carefully, he stepped onto the dry areas and out of the deserted bathhouse. As he walked through the passages, his stomach began to burn and ache, causing his pace to slow.

* * *

Deleted Scene: Names

 _Removed as it adds little & I couldn't find a place to put it. It also comes pretty close to breaking the 4th wall. _

"Dion said my name wasn't polite. Our names." Quasimodo looked up from the stack of candles. "You are a precious jewel. Phoebus a Sun God. Then there is me, an almost. It's as if our names were determined by a higher power of sorts."

"Would your life be any different had you bore the name "Angus" or "Frederic" rather than "Quasimodo?"

Quasimodo watched Esmeralda's words. For a time, only his eyes moved. Slowly , his shoulders slumped. His lips parted slightly. He sighed.

"No, it wouldn't."

"This also holds true for the name Frollo.

"I'm starting to realize that."

* * *

Deleted Scene: Waiting

 _This added more words than I wanted to the last chapter._

Esmeralda paced outside the Palace of Justice. Djali sat nearby, chewing her cud. The doors opened and closed, men in armour, uniforms and judicial robes continually passing through. A nearby guard watched her anxiously, lowering his spear as she attempted to climb the steps. She sighed, looking to her disinterested friend.

"Come on, Djali." Esmeralda walked across the path to the Palace of Justice, seating herself atop a stone wall.

Djali climbed next to her. Esmeralda swung her swollen feet, her gilt anklets rattling against each other. The bells sounded, a few notes to announce dawn. Time passed, the bells tolled again, this time calling the masses toward Notre Dame. Esmeralda remained seated, watching the doors, the changing guards and the flow of Parisians in and out of the dark, lifeless building. She watched the people flow out of Notre Dame as mass ended. The sun continued to climb the sky.

Esmeralda looked to the sky. The sun has neared its peak, causing her shadow to shrink close to her. She looked to the Palace of Justice, to see Phoebus and Quasimodo moving down the steps. Quasimodo leaned on the balustrade, his gait slow. She stepped down from the wall.

Esmeralda moved through the people, Djali followed close behind. She waited at the bottom of the steps, grasping Quasimodo's hand from the cold stone as he neared the street. He looked to her, a tired smile on his face.

"What's this?" Esmeralda smiled, then looked to the scroll. She watched as Quasimodo turned to glance at the Palace of Justice, looked to the scroll and back to her.


End file.
